


Ramifications

by Arisprite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oops I also started another plot, Post-Episode: s03e24 The Divine Move, Recovery, Wrapping up loose ends, post season 3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arisprite/pseuds/Arisprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wrap up to these moments was always the worst, Stiles thought. In the movies, they just cut to the next scene, after the wounded have been taken care of, the bodies have been cleared, and everyone’s gotten a nights sleep at least. But, in real life, you had to stand around, and wait for people’s parents to arrive, for everyone to decide which car they were going in, and who was ending up on who’s couch.</p><p>A post season 3b fic, wherein everyone recovers (and Stiles struggles to), everyone grieves, the Sheriff tries to make sure his son won't be arrested for multiple murders, Agent McCall is suspcious, Chris and Isaac make decisions, and Parrish has a conspiracy board.</p><p>Starts after the action is over, but before the epilogue montage. Should fit into canon. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the panting, bleeding, exhausted aftermath of the attack on the station, Sheriff John Stilinski could only stand there and wonder if he’d have to support Deputy Parrish when he collapsed. It was an inane thing to be thinking, as Parrish was pretty steady, and the wounds from the swordsmen had mostly closed. But, he still focused on Parrish’s legs (are they shaking?) and eyes (hazy or clear?) to avoid looking around the rest of the station-just for a minute more. Then, he’d pull on his sheriff’s hat, and do the work that needed to be done. Just let him breathe for one second. 

The oni were gone. The station was quiet, with just the quick breathing of Parrish and Cordova, living and wounded filling the air. There was one man down. Gutierrez. It was terrible, but all John could feel was relief. It was long after midnight, there were only the four of them manning the station. The rest, most of the entire force were asleep in their beds, unaware that anything had happened at all. After the bomb only a few weeks ago (last week?) only one death was better than he could have hoped for.

“Deputies, what’s your status?” John asked, trying to sound brusque. Parrish let out a breathy little noise, and lifted his shirt. The wound was mostly closed, and looked like it had healed a day or two already. Parrish’s eyes widened, and he looked quickly up to John. John knew his reaction wasn’t the surprise and confusion that Parrish was feeling, but he was too tired to fake it. 

“I’m okay?” Parrish breathed, “How am I okay?” 

The Sheriff glanced down at his own arm, and saw that the cut was just a pink line, not even a scab. 

“Just don’t think about it, Deputy.” 

John went over to the other man on the floor. Cordova was still clutching his side, seemingly not realizing that it was all over. There was a lot of blood on his shirt, but the cut was healing too. The Sheriff rubbed his hand up the man’s arm. 

“Come on, man. They’re gone.” 

The dispatch phone line suddenly blared out midring like something had been stopping the calls from coming through until that moment. They all jumped, and then Parrish walked over to the dispatch desk. Gutierrez was the man on duty there, and he was on the floor with a gash through his stomach. He wasn’t healing. 

Parrish answered the phone, while Sheriff checked the man’s pulse. Nothing. John closed his eyes, and let out a deep breath. Parrish, meanwhile, was talking to what sounded like a person in full blown panic. He fumbled for a notepad, since all the computers were off (probably for another strange supernatural reason) and took down what the person was saying. 

After the tenth reassurance that they were on their way, he hung up on the person. Immediately afterwards, the phone rang again, but Parrish ignored it. He turned to the Sheriff with wide eyes. 

“Sheriff, we weren’t the only place that got hit. The hospital was attacked by more of the swordsmen. It’s bad.” 

John swore quietly, and pushed down a flash of alarm about Melissa’s night shift. If she was there, she knew better than most what to do. He also desperately needed to get in contact with his son, or Scott. Was this over, was everyone okay? Was Stiles alright? He tried to tamp that down too. 

“Send out the emergency codes, get everyone on the force awake and to the hospital. Advise them that the swordsmen are armed and dangerous, but they are likely already gone. We need to contain this. Also, take Cordova to the hospital with you. I’ll follow you over.”

“Yes, sir.” Parrish said, face determined, but a bit too pale, and went to leave. John pulled out his cell phone, and then paused. 

“And, kid,” He said, stopping Parrish in the doorway.

“Yes, sir?” He asked. 

“Get yourself checked out as well. You lost a lot of blood.” 

Parrish put a hand to his side, and felt the dampness of the uniform. An uncomfortable look passed over his face. “I’m trying not to think about that, Sheriff.” 

John nodded, and let him go, Cordova slung over his shoulder. He looked at his phone, about to dial Stiles (a thing he’d done countless times over the past two weeks, but he’d hardly ever received an answer) when it lit up with Stiles’ name. With a gusty breath, John answered. 

“Stiles?”

There was a long pause, and a long breath of his own, and then his son’s voice was shakily answering. 

“Dad. You alright?” 

John closed his eyes, pressed his hand to his mouth for a second, and then pulled it away. 

“I’m good. Are you okay? Is it over now?” 

More breathing, and a clicking swallow that could only mean that Stiles was holding back tears. Dread filled him. 

“Stiles, is everyone alright?” 

Stiles made a little noise, surprise or confusion, before answering. 

“Yeah, yeah, well- almost everyone. Aiden died. But, I’m fine. The nogitsune is gone.” 

“For good?” John asked, passing on asking about Aiden. If he remembered correctly, he was one of the twins from the alpha pack that had been hanging around Scott. He was maybe also the one sort of dating Lydia? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Stiles was breathing and it sounded amazing. 

“Yeah, dad. For good.”

“Oh, thank god.” John left his hand on his face this time, blinking back tears of his own. Stiles was okay. He would be okay, anyway. “Where are you? I have to get to the hospital, but I can come and take you-”

Stiles interrupted. “Dad, what happened at the hospital? Scott can’t get a hold of his mom, and he’s kinda freaking out.” 

John blew out a breath. “I don’t know yet, but if it was anything like what happened here, it probably was pretty bad. I just sent Parrish and Cordova over there, along with the force that was off duty.” 

“Well, what happened there?” 

“What else. The oni came in swords swinging. We had guns, the hospital doesn’t.” John refrained from mentioning the supernatural poison wounds that would have definitely killed him, had the nogitsune not died, or whatever happened. 

“God, Dad, you don’t think you should tell me these things?” Stiles exclaimed, and he sounded so like himself that John had to close his eyes against a rush of relief. In the background of Stiles car, the Sheriff heard Scott talking, sounding anxious and young like he hadn’t for months. 

“Dad, can you come get Scott on your way to the hospital? I’ll just head home. I feel like I could sleep for a week…” Sudden tiredness filled Stiles’ voice, and John knew that he was probably feeling ten times worse than he was saying. 

“Where are you?”

“At the school. Front door.” Stiles replied.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” John was already getting into the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia takes Stiles home.

The wrap up to these moments was always the worst, Stiles thought. In the movies, they just cut to the next scene, after the wounded have been taken care of, the bodies have been cleared, and everyone’s gotten a nights sleep at least. But, in real life, you had to stand around, and wait for people’s parents to arrive, for everyone to decide which car they were going in, and who was ending up on who’s couch. It was a tedious nightmare, and Stiles was far too tired for it. 

Not that anyone was asking him to decide anything. He’d called his dad, and gotten through on the first try, feeling that rush of relief at his whole sounding voice. The rest of the group was standing or sitting on the steps of the school, too frozen by the aftermath to move just yet. Mr. Argent was standing by Derek, and they both were looking downwards at Ethan. He was in the covered area they’d been fighting in, holding Aiden’s body, taking the space that had been offered. Kira had called her mom, and her parents were on the way to pick her up. Isaac was sitting still and silent on the other side of Mr. Argent, looking far away.

Lydia had decided not to call her parents, and to just talk to them in the morning. They didn’t know anything was happening at all, and just assumed that it was a normal day at school, after a weekend at Allison’s. ( _Allison-_ ). She was sitting on the step next to him, a line of warm support pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder. A year ago, he would have been ecstatic to be in this position, but he only felt comfort now. Comfort he didn’t deserve, but still. Aiden was dead. She needed someone, and if he was glad to have her near too, well…

Scott was pacing in front of him, his phone to his ear. He had called his mom several times by now, his dad two times, and Deaton once (who’d actually picked up). Stiles remembered when the nogitsune had said that the sheriff’s station, the hospital, and the clinic were being attacked by the oni as they spoke. Stiles had had to push down a rush of panic then, and hearing his dad’s voice had been a massive relief. The non-answering from Mrs. McCall now was turning his insides to knots. He could only imagine how Scott was feeling. 

“Still nothing.” Scott growled, pulling the phone from his ear. “Argh, where _is_ she?” 

Stiles lifted his heavy head to meet Scott’s eyes. There were flashes of red every  
once in a while, as Scott struggled to keep from panicking. 

“Scott, you gotta calm down, man. My dad will be here any minute.”

The hospital was on the other side of town from the school, and the path in between was fenced and residential, or Scott probably would have ran there already. Scott, growling lowly again, turned and paced, before sighing and sitting down close on Stiles’ other side. He was warm too, and Stiles inched both him and Lydia a little closer. Seems after the ice of the nogitsune’s power, he was a glutton for heat. 

“I’m worried about her. About both of them.” Scott said, tense and tight. Mentioning his dad too, Stiles thought with surprise, and nodded. 

“I know, man.”

Suddenly, Scott had his arm around Stiles’ neck, jostling Lydia and pulling him into a sideways hug. Stiles stiffened, but then semi-relaxed into the embrace, pressing his face against the heat of Scott’s neck. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, Stiles.” Scott whispered. Stiles’ felt his chest tighten, and he nodded into Scott’s shoulder. 

“You too,” Stiles said. Scott nodded back, and then pulled away. 

“Your dad is coming.” 

At that moment, Stiles heard the little woop of the sheriff’s cruiser, and the distinct noise of the engine pulling up. Stiles freed himself from both Scott and Lydia, and stood a little unsteadily, moving forward as his dad shut off the car and got out. He was still feeling weak, and shaky (not to mention his pounding headache, but he was actually much better than he was before) but he needed no help to break into a jog before slamming into his father’s arms. 

The wuff of air leaving his dad’s lungs almost made him laugh. It had been the same noise since he got big enough to hug him that hard, and it just felt so good to put his arms around him. He smelled of gunpowder, blood and supernatural ozone, and Stiles felt a terror rush through him at how close the oni had to have gotten. His dad squeezed back, with both of them pressing as hard as they could. 

“Dad-” Stiles choked. It was half relief, and half- “Can’t breathe.”

The Sheriff immediately loosened his grip, but didn’t let go entirely. “Sorry.”

Stiles gave a huff, and a sniff, and dammit, his eyes were burning. Not here, not now. Later, he promised himself. He was sure there would be tears later. Joke time now. 

“I didn’t survive this whole thing just to be asphyxiated by my own father.” It was a lame one, but it did the job. His dad pulled away, smiling with watery eyes. 

“It’s good to see you, son.” His dad said. Stiles smiled back, trying to keep his lungs from hitching. 

“You too, Dad.” 

Too soon, Scott and Lydia stepped up behind him, and the others moved as well. In the parking lot where his father had parked, he saw the yukimura’s suburban drive up as well. Stiles sighed quietly, and pulled away in time to see his dad pull on his Sheriff’s persona. 

“Later, I’m going to ask you all what happened here. But, if it is all really over, you all need sleep more than anything.”  
Stiles inwardly agreed. Sleep sounded wonderful, now that he wasn’t worried about the nogitsune taking over his brain the second he closed his eyes. 

“Scott, if you wanna go to the hospital, we gotta go now. The oni hit there hard, and I don’t know who’s okay.” 

Scott, looking terrified, nodded, and moved towards the car, but not before pressing a hand into Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles nodded, and let him go. 

_I should go with him…_ But, Stiles couldn’t fathom being awake for that long. It felt like he was being held up with thread, and any moment something was going to snap, and he’d be either crying or screaming on the floor. He hoped Scott didn’t hold it against him. 

Sheriff put a hand on Scott’s shoulder, and nodded goodbye to Stiles. “Get some sleep. Don’t drive yourself home, though.”  
Stiles had been having the same thought, wondering how he’d manage to handle his jeep. Lydia spoke up, the first sound he’d heard from her. “I’ll take him.” 

His dad smiled at Lydia gratefully. Then he lifted his eyes to the rest of the group, lingering on Chris, and Derek beside him and then the huddled form of Ethan over Aiden. 

“Is there anything I need to do?” He asked. Derek replied. 

“I’ll take care of them.” 

Mr. and Mrs. yukimura came from their car, and hugged Kira tightly. Stiles saw Scott glance at her, and then away, but he was too tired to interpret what his friend was thinking at the moment. In the moments after, the group divided up into the various cars. Kira went with her parents, Isaac with Mr. Argent, Derek collected Ethan and his brother’s body. Scott left towards the cruiser, and his dad followed, with one more glad look towards Stiles. Stiles returned it, and then looked towards Lydia. 

She looked wrecked, more tired than he had ever seen her, with tears streaking her face and her hair messy. Stiles was sure he looked little better, even though he hadn’t seen a mirror in weeks. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he could ever look in a mirror again- seeing his own face, twisted in rage and bearing down on him and Lydia would haunt him for a long time. There were a lot of things that would haunt him for a long time. 

Still, Lydia turned one corner of her mouth up for him, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. She’d supported him all through the night, and even in the middle of her heartbreak, she still reached out to him. On impulse, he pulled her into a gentle hug. 

“Thanks.” Stiles whispered, trying to show all his gratefulness. He didn’t deserve her. She nodded against his shirt, and squeezed tighter once, before pulling further away. 

“We should go.” She said, her voice quiet and hoarse, like she’d been screaming. Stiles nodded, feeling all the tiredness crash over him again. He could barely keep upright. 

She drove. There was no way he could. Stiles alternated between feeling like his skin was buzzing, and like his limbs were made of lead. Extreme sleep deprivation and the come down from tons of adrenaline was kinda a bitch. The drive was hazy, and then Lydia was shaking his shoulder, parked in his own driveway. 

“Oh, we’re here.” He murmured. He slid out of the car, and almost fell, if not for Lydia’s arms around his waist. Blearily, he blinked and noticed that the sky was lightening. It was almost morning. “Lydia, Lydia, look.” He said, gesturing limply. “The light…”

She paused and looked upwards, but didn’t seem to understand the . Something...something was very significant. 

“Yes, Stiles. That happens when the sun comes up.” Lydia said, adjusting her shoulder under his, and trying to move them forward. Stiles resisted, pulling back and looking upwards. Birds were singing. Birds. 

“No, no, you don’t get it. We made it.” 

Lydia’s face shut down, even as her eyes widened in understanding. 

“Not all of us.” 

Cold realization rushed in and cleared Stiles’ head. Feeling like an asshole, and knowing that Allison would be a gaping hole in all of their lives for a long time, he ran his free hand down his face. 

“God, Lydia, I’m an idiot. Stupid, slap-happy, Stiles. God, I need to sleep…” 

Lydia nodded, and moved forwards again, and this time Stiles came with her. “Let’s get you to bed then.”

Stiles walked with her, nodding. He pulled out his keys-miraculously, they were still in his pocket, but his hands weren’t steady, so Lydia unlocked the door for them, and then locked it behind them. She moved them towards the stairs, but Stiles remembered the chaos in his room (oh, and didn’t he flinch at that word), the conspiracy board that covered his entire wall, the red yarn everywhere, and the hole in his sheets where he’d plunged the scissors in in a burst of crazy. He’d nearly been unable to get to his clothes to grab a new shirt at some point earlier in the night, with Mrs. Yukimura waiting outside in the car. There was no way he could sleep in there. 

He shook his head, digging his heels in, but unable to say a thing. Lydia huffed in annoyance, and looked up at him. 

“What are you doing? Your bed is up there.” 

“Can’t-” He puffed, _breathe, Stiles, breathe_ , and shook his head. Lydia was looking at him in concern now, and he shook his head again. “The room’s too messed up… I can’t, I can’t sleep in there.” His heart was pounding, and he knew he’d have to go up there eventually, but he couldn’t. 

“Okay,” Lydia said, and seemed to steady herself. “The couch it is.” 

Steering them both into the living room, she set Stiles down on the cushions. The living room was probably the least used room in the house, unless he and Scott were having a video game sleepover, but the couch was soft and smelled like home, and Stiles almost immediately slumped sideways. A blanket was draped over him, the scratchy one from the back of the couch, but he didn’t even care, and then his shoes were being pulled off, and his feet were placed on the couch. He stayed curled up when the hands tried to straighten him to the full length of the couch. _There’s room on the other end._

Lydia paused, and he realized he’d said that out loud. He shifted, lifting his head, though it felt like moving a mountain. He was about to apologize, but Lydia toed off her shoes, and curled up on the other end of the couch. She settled in, tugging on the other end of the blanket, and tangling their feet together. Stiles shifted too, and they both wriggled around for a moment, trying to get comfortable. Lydia’s feet were warm, and Stiles shoved his own underneath them, only to receive a light kick to the shin. 

“What was that for?” Stiles complained, eyes already closed. 

“Your feet are cold.” Lydia answered. 

“Hmmm,” Stiles responded, and it was supposed to be words, but he didn’t remember what he was trying to say. Then, heaviness settled over him, and he faded into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes. First of all, thank you for the great response to the last chapter! I will be continuing this, have no fear, and I'll probably post on the schedule of one chapter a week.  
> Sheriff Stilinski's first name has become John. I hope no one's offended by that. (Beside's Rémy, I already know your opinion ;) )  
> This fic will cover the reactions to the finale, emotionally, physically, and mentally, as far as I'm able to convey. If you have any suggestions, comments, or criticsms regarding how I'm handling issues/if you want me to tag for any triggers that I haven't, please let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott finds his parents.

Scott’s fingers tapped on his knee as a strange mixture of relief and terror tightened his chest. The passenger seat of the police cruiser was a prison, and he felt sure that he could get there faster on foot. He should have just gone, he’d be there by now, without all this waiting. Sheriff Stilinski sat next to him, driving just past speeding, cutting the ten minutes to the hospital to a nine and half. Scott knew this because he kept his eyes fixed on the phone screen. 

_Someone will call._

The Sheriff was quiet as they drove, but Scott could smell the tension on him, the fear and the relief. He knew that the relief was for Stiles, and he definitely shared that, but he’d feel a hell of a lot better if someone would freaking call and tell him his mom was alright! 

A snapping sound broke his angered haze, and he looked down to see a long diagonal crack across the screen. 

“Dammit!” Scott hissed, and the Sheriff looked over. 

“You okay?” 

Scott threw his head back against the seat, hoping it would jar his brains around enough to calm down. He could feeling his hackles rising, his claws pressing to emerge from his fingertips. 

“I broke my phone.” He said, and he pressed the buttons to see if anything still worked. It lit up normally, so that was something. Scott blew out a breath, and tried to regain control. He pressed the corner of his phone against his forehead -not as hard as before though. 

Sheriff Stilinski’s kept flickering to him as they drove. Scott resisted the urge to snap at him. 

“I’ll get you there as fast as I can, Scott.” He said, calm and competent, and even though Scott could smell his true emotions, he still felt slightly comforted. 

At that moment, Scott’s phone lit up (finally) with his dad’s name, and Scott had the answer button pressed before the ringer even picked up. 

“Dad? Where’s Mom?” Scott said, and his father paused, and took a breath in, and it was enough time for a bucket of ice to plummet down his spine. “Dad?” 

“She’s fine.” He replied. “Your mother’s fine.” 

Scott closed his eyes, his emotions giving him whiplash, and slumped back in the seat. 

“Oh, thank god…” He whispered, and his dad echoed his grateful breath. Scott took a moment to revel in the fact that his mom had made it. He didn’t think he could have done it, if she’d died too. She didn’t even know about Allison- that had only been hours ago. It already seemed so long. 

Scott pushed his thoughts away, and burning throat that they brought with them, and opened his eyes again. 

“Dad, what happened there? Did you see anything?”

There was a noisy breath. “I didn’t see much, your mother and I were in the elevator for most of it. But, it was those same men. The swordsmen who stabbed me at the house. Your mom got hit, and it looked bad for a while, but she’s up now and helping the rest. A lot of people died.” 

Scott swallowed down his fear at finding out his mom had been hurt. It wasn’t that much of a surprise; the nogitsune had told them that it was going after the hospital, that people would die after being touched by an oni blade. 

_She’s okay she’s okay she’s okay…_

He looked up as the Sheriff pulled into the ambulance parking in the ER bay, and then spoke into the phone. 

“Dad, we’re just pulling up. Where are you guys?” 

“I’m on the first floor, near the elevator. You mom went off after a stretcher a while ago, but I’ll try to find her.” There was barely veiled frustration in his voice, and for once, Scott agreed with him. 

“Okay, I’ll come find you.” He hung up, and he and Sheriff Stilinski got out of the car and ran into the building. The lights were bright inside, after being out in the dark night, and for the first time, Scott realized that it was probably close to dawn. He pushed back a wave of exhaustion- he hadn’t really slept in two days, only grabbing a quick nap while they were waiting for the oni, the day Lydia was missing. Yesterday? Was it really?

The hospital was a mess, with people running around, and stretchers being pushed haphazardly around the main hallways. The ER was nuts, and there was a stream of bleeding people being taken out the doors as they came in. Scott guessed they were taking the wounded to another hospital-one with non-traumatized doctors. Not that that stopped the ones who were able from helping. He recognized a few of his mom’s coworkers helping. Then, someone moved and he saw his mom. 

She was upright, and doing her job, and that filled him with relief. She was also pale, frazzled, and her scrub pants were bloody from the thigh down, and gaping open, even if the wound looked like it had already somewhat healed. Scott stumbled forward, and called out to her.

“Mom!”

His mom turned, and her eyes widened in relief and joy, opening her arms to take him into a hug. 

“Scott! Baby, you’re alright!” She said, squeezing him tight. Scott hugged back as hard as he dared, and was glad to feel her arms firm and steady. She must be more okay than she looked. 

“I’m fine.” Scott replied, pulling back and looking at her face. “Are you?” 

Melissa glanced around to see if anyone was listening, before lowering her voice. “I wasn’t, but suddenly it was mostly better. I assume you all had something to do with that?” 

Scott let out a deep breath and nodded. “It’s all over now.” 

Melissa closed her eyes for a moment, and pressed her hand to her chest. “And Stiles? Everyone else?” 

It hit him like a lightning bolt, and Scott’s chest seized with pain as he realized that his mom didn’t know about Allison. It had only been a few hours ago, and she’d been at work. There had just been too much to do. 

“Mom-” His voice broke, and Melissa’s eyes widened in fear. “Allison’s gone.” 

The tears that had stayed back since he held her on the ground came back full force, and Scott suddenly couldn’t catch a breath. Shaking, he pushed his hands against his face, and tried to push back the waves of agony. 

“No, oh no, baby…” Melissa’s voice thickened with tears of her own, and she pulled Scott again to her chest. His fingers clutched at her back, and he gave himself a moment to just break against his mother’s shoulder. 

Finally, he pulled back, wiping his face, and grimacing. “Sorry, I got your scrubs…”

Melissa made a face, and gestured downwards. “I think these scrubs are history, hon.” She wiped her own face, make up already long gone from tears of pain and panic. Her eyes were as red as his were, he was sure (barring crimson alpha eyes, anyway). 

“What happened? Can you- do you want to talk about it yet?” 

Scott shrugged, sniffing. “It was earlier this evening. God, so much has happened… She saved us. She figured out how to kill the oni, and died for it.” Scott rasped. 

Melissa placed her hand on the side of Scott’s face, her expression pained. “Honey, I’m so sorry.” 

Scott nodded, because what could you say? 

At that moment, his dad walked up. It was a distraction that was _almost_ welcome. 

“Scott, are you okay?” Agent McCall asked, coming up to them. He wore a face of panic, worry and confusion, and Scott was glad for the anger that seeing him always brought. It was better than grief. 

“I’m fine, Dad.” Scott said, wiping his face again. He did not want to explain to him how Allison had died tonight, not when he couldn’t say the real story. The cover up that Mr. Argent had said, _mugging_ \- it was insulting. 

Agent McCall looked at his son in barely concealed worry, as if Scott’s plain grief, and torn clothing were just one more thing tonight that didn’t make sense. Scott did have to admit that he was glad that he was alright. He was his father, no matter what he’d said before, and he was grateful that both his parents had come out of this with their lives at least, if not unscathed. 

Behind Scott, the Sheriff approached, having given them space for the initial greeting. Agent McCall lifted his gaze, something flashed behind his eyes. 

“Sheriff, what the hell is going on in this town?” His voice was hard and accusing. Scott, even in the midst of all of his pain, cracked a tiny smile. His dad had no idea. 

Sheriff had his hands up, automatic reaction to dealing with aggressive people. 

“We’re gonna figure this out, Agent. That’s what we’re here for.” 

“Well, you’re doing a damn fine job.” He said, sarcasm heavy. “Your men making fun of me for the swordsmen every day, and now look what happened? People died here, Sheriff!” 

“I’m aware of that-”

“Dad! Stop!” Scott couldn’t take his dad blaming the Sheriff. “Sheriff Stilinski is doing the best he can, so just stop it!”   
Agent McCall looked at Scott with hurt flashing across his face. Then he rolled his lips between his teeth, and nodded. 

“Of course, sorry.” He said to the Sheriff. The Sheriff nodded, looking frayed but in control, unlike his father. Scott sighed, and knew he needed to step up. He moved away from his mother’s supporting arm, and stood up straighter. 

“I’ll take them both home…” Scott trailed off, his eyes following a police man walking by with an armful of evidence bags. Inside were various things from the scene, including a stack of video tapes. Surveillance. He remembered watching the tapes from the case with Matt. The nogitsune surely didn’t take such care to cover his face when he’d attacked here, and if a being with Stiles’ face just walked into the hospital with a pair of swordsmen at his beck and call, it wouldn’t be long before Stiles was being arrested for murder. There would be nothing that the Sheriff or anyone could do. 

Moving away from the group, Scott walked alongside the man, before snatching it out of his arms using werewolf speed. The man didn’t notice, but the three adults he’d left behind sure did. Over the Agent’s exclamations, and the Sheriff trying to talk to him, Scott took the three bagged tapes, and ran into an empty examination room. Without pausing, he threw them to the floor, and stomped down hard. The tapes cracked, and then shattered into pieces. The tape he tore into pieces, and ground into the tile. He didn’t look up until he was done, only to see Agent McCall staring at him in horror. 

“What are you doing?” He yelled, ignoring Melissa’s hand on his arm. 

“Rafe-” 

“You’ve just destroyed evidence! You can’t-”

Scott snapped.

“YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” He roared, (and there may have been a little bit of wolf in there, because his dad abruptly went pale), Scott wasn’t done, though. “You left! You forfeited any right to come back here and tell me how to live. You have no idea what my life is like, Dad! What I’ve been through, or what I have to do!”

The sheriff stepped forward, trying to reach out, to calm him down, but dammit, Scott was through with this. His first girlfriend had died in his arms, his best friend had his body stolen, and so so many people had been killed. It was supposed to be all over, only to find that Stiles had overwhelming evidence that he was a murderer. It was too much!

“Scott-”

“Just shut up about things you don’t know about!”

Sheriff Stilinski made contact with his shoulder, and abruptly all his anger disappeared. The tapes were dust on the ground, his dad was an idiot (nothing new) and he was _so tired._ Scott slumped, and put his head in his hands. 

Agent McCall made a frustrated noise, and looked to the sheriff. “The evidence-”

“I’ll take care of it, Agent.” Stilinski said, rubbing his hand up and down Scott’s back. Melissa came forward then, and put her arm around her son. She was shaking with tiredness too, and so Scott shifted until he was supporting her. Slowly, they moved towards the door. 

McCall was still sputtering. “He just obstructed an investigation of a _hospital massacre_ , we need to-”

At the door, Scott turned around to see the Sheriff rub his face. “There’s more going on here than you know, McCall. A lot more. Leave it for tonight, but it’s up to Scott what he tells you.” 

Scott felt Sheriff Stilinski’s eyes on him, and he nodded. “Later, dad. Okay?” 

Brow furrowed, Agent McCall pushed his hands into his hips, before nodding once. “Fine. Get your mother home, alright? Get some sleep.” 

Scott nodded tiredly, and moved into a slow walk towards the ER doors, with his mom limping a little by his side. The limp concerned him, but she’d been walking around helping patients, so she was probably alright for now. 

The sun was rising now; it was probably close to four or five in the morning. There was probably some metaphor about there always being a new day after the darkest night, but he was too tired to make the connection. 

Scott drove them home in his mom’s car, and all the while his brain kept circling around the same thought.  
Allison was dead. Allison was dead, and there was no werewolf healing, or magic resurrection bringing her back. Because she was human. Somehow, he’d managed to forget that fact. She was powerful, and capable, and he forgot that her skin was soft, and that blades would pierce it given the tiniest chance. 

Today, evil had gotten that chance, and claimed it, and Allison’s body was chill in his arms before Chris had taken her. Scott had cried already, and he would again, but for now his eyes were dry. He felt like stone; cold and still, and that any move he’d make would crumble him to dust. When they pulled up to the house, he just sat there in the driver’s seat, breathing in and out. 

His mother turned in the seat, and looked at him with sad eyes, questioning, but Scott shook his head. There was nothing she could do, or say right now to make this better. Allison was gone, and none of them would be alright after all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys have only gotten nicer! Thank you for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks. You're the best! The plot is starting, and here's our first look at Rafael and Melissa. I actually love them a lot, and Rafael's confusion is going to play a big part of the story. A new chapter a day early for me, but I was chomping at the bit. Hope you liked it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Isaac try to sleep. Sheriff wraps things up at the hospital. Lydia wakes up.

Chris had been dreading this moment. The moment when everything was wrapped up nice and tight. No one’s life was in danger, and the world went still while everyone recovered, and prepared to go back to normal life after the crisis. 

Lucky them. 

There would be no normal life for him now. 

Even turning the key in the lock seemed harder. 

To tell the truth, Chris was glad to have Isaac here. The stupid hormonal werewolf who definitely slept with his daughter nonetheless, it was comforting to have someone near who’d loved Allison too. That fact he’d found out when Victoria had died, and he’d spent all summer elbow to elbow with Allison. He hadn’t even wanted her to go back to school, just to keep her close for a little longer. Isaac was family, and he definitely wasn’t Allison, but he cared, and that was something. 

Said stupid werewolf was shuffling into the apartment behind him, and Chris didn’t really think he’d be getting rid of him any time soon. Chris felt the weariness descend on him, and he wondered idly if he’d be able to sleep at all tonight- well, this morning. The sun had been growing brighter outside, even though the inside of the building was still dark and shadowed. 

If he turned, he’d still be able to make out the door to Allison’s bedroom. 

Chris came further in, avoiding looking down the hall. He dropped his bag, and coat on the floor, and then looked back at an unmoving Isaac. It was so like earlier this evening, it was hard to remember that this was all over. 

“You can sleep on the couch,” Chris said, tired and quiet. Isaac nodded, his face drawn into a hard frown, like he was trying to keep a lock down on his emotions. Ah, well, Chris couldn’t blame him; that’s exactly what he was doing to his own. 

Leaving him to his own thoughts, Chris moved into his own bedroom without looking around at anything, changing clothes (ones that weren’t flecked with his daughter’s blood and the sweat of fighting), and sinking down onto the bed. It wasn’t the bed that he used to share with his wife, but it was just as empty. 

It was maybe an hour later, and he hadn’t slept, but he hadn’t thought much either which was a blessing. The dark had been fuzzy, and silent, until-

A broken gasp that he didn’t need werewolf hearing to make out. A sniffle, and whimper from the front room, and then a long keen.   
Isaac was crying. 

Chris knew that he very probably wasn’t wanted. His brand of comfort was oftentimes too harsh, too clinical, borne of years of upbringing with Kate, fighting to be taken seriously over his more ruthless younger sister. He knew that Isaac was proud, and closed off. He knew his own grief was probably a beacon already. But, still Chris slipped out from under his covers, and moved out into the living room. 

The werewolf was curled tight, not on the couch, but on the floor leaning against it, his head in his hands. Chris could see him shaking, even in the dim morning light, pressing his hands against his mouth to drown out the noises. Muffled cries made it through, and Chris tiredly noticed his heart tugging. 

“Oh, Isaac…” Chris mumbled, and Isaac’s head shot up, eyes wet and round. He swallowed, and jolted to his feet, trying to talk, but his sobs hadn’t stopped yet. His lungs kept hitching. 

“Mr. Argent, I- I’m sorry, I was trying, trying to be quiet…” 

Chris sighed, and knew that his voice would be thin with repressed emotion. “I wasn’t sleeping, don’t worry.” 

Isaac sniffled, and looked no less worried. Chris didn’t really know what to do for the boy. They were both hurting, and Chris didn’t really have it in him to be an arm of strength. He was so tired, and he didn’t have much experience with nurturing. 

“C’mon.” He said, putting a hand out, only lightly brushing Isaac’s arm. He hadn’t even taken his coat off. “Come have a drink with me.” 

Isaac’s eyebrow came up, and he finally stopped hiccuping. “A drink?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, remembering vaguely a night when he’d offered Scott a shot of Tequila, when he and Allison were jumpy and awkward around each other. Remembering the pleasure he’d taken in embarrassing her hurt like a brand. “What do you want?” 

Chris walked over to the liquor cabinet as he spoke, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Isaac hummed, and then came closer. 

“Whatever you’re having.” He said, and his voice was firm. Giving him half a smile, Chris lifted the bottle, and then grabbed two tumblers. 

“Good man.” 

They sat on the couch, and Chris poured out the first round, giving Isaac’s to him with a nod. Isaac clinked their glasses together, and took a sip. He only coughed a bit, and Chris felt a strange flash of pride. He found himself wishing that he’d taken the time to get to know this boy with Allison…pain replaced the pride at the thought. He took another burning swallow. 

With the help of the whiskey, and extreme exhaustion, they both only made it through one tumbler full before passing out with their heads tilted against the back of the couch. It was uncomfortable as hell, and Chris knew he’d have a sore neck, in those last fleeting moments of consciousness, but he didn't care enough to move. Isaac was already snoring beside him, and Chris just closed his eyes, and allowed the blackness of sleep to let him forget for a moment. Just a moment. 

****

Sheriff John Stilinski watched Scott and Melissa walk away, towards the doors of the hospital. A police office let them through, and helped them avoid the growing crowd of reporters, before they both disappeared into Melissa’s car. John sighed, and closed his eyes. His body ached with weariness, but he knew he wasn’t close to being done with the day yet. Hospital workers were still reeling with trauma, while nurses wearing scrubs of different colors -workers from other hospitals- bustled around, pushing the last of the stretchers to the waiting ambulances. The hospital was evacuating the wounded, and some of the admitted patients, until Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital got their feet back under them. 

Deputy Parrish was standing a few paces away, looking drawn. John sighed again, looking at him. There were still blood stains on his uniform. 

“Parrish, I thought I told you to get that wound looked at. You look like you’re about to fall over.” 

Parrish looked up at him, and then lifted a hand to his shirt, like he’d forgotten about it. 

“I grabbed a nurse, but…” He trailed off, looking the kind of disturbed that could only be caused by supernatural explanations. “Sir, it’s almost completely healed.”

John knew he should be showing surprise at this ‘unexplainable turn of events’ as Stiles would say, but he was just too damn tired. Parrish was looking at him like he knew he had the answers, and dammit, was he going to have to explain the supernaturally strange events of this town to his entire police force? Now he knew how Stiles felt. 

Parrish was looking at him closely. “How is any of this possible?”

John put his hand over his eyes, and then dropped it to look Parrish in the eye. 

“It’s Beacon Hills, son. 

Deputy Parrish didn’t look pleased with his casual dismissal, but he was far too tired to give a damn. John knew that not only did he still have to do all his normal duties as sheriff -gather the witnesses, bag and tag the evidence, calm the public and appease the reporters that were already flocking- but he also had to make sure there was nothing left behind by the nogitsune that would incriminate his innocent son. Scott’s indelicate smashing of the video tapes was helpful, but promising an explanation to Agent McCall meant that the man was trailing after him like a puppy. An extremely confused, and demanding puppy.

“Sheriff, what the hell is going on here?” Speak of the devil. McCall stepped up to the two of them, bristling with frustration. 

“McCall, look around you. There’s a bushel of traumatized people in the middle of our crime scene, which we haven’t even started processing yet. Help out, or go home.”

McCall’s eyes flashed. “I _was_ helping, but then my son smashed the video evidence, and you let him do it.”

Parrish’s mouth dropped open. “Sir?”

John brought his hand to his head, uselessly rubbing at a tension headache. 

“Go home, McCall.” But, McCall wasn’t having it. 

“What aren’t you telling me? You _and_ Scott?” He growled, and John snapped. Stepping up into McCall’s face, John put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him backwards, just a bit. 

“Look, _buddy_. As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of your goddamned business.” John released the other man’s shoulder, giving it a little pat, and stepping backwards. Parrish stared at them both out of the corner of John’s eye. John smiled coldly, and continued, “If Scott decides to tell you anything, I’ll support him a hundred percent. And if you don’t like it, then I’ll protect Scott to the death.”

Wide eyed, and beginning to bluster, McCall stepped backwards even further, almost running into the wall of the hallway. He straightened out his completely rumpled suit. Then, he moved to walk away, and then turned back. 

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Stilinski. You, Melissa, Scott...you’re all hiding something. I’m going to find out what.” 

Blowing out a gust of air, John deflated and gave McCall a half hearted wave. He remembered being there, determined to put together puzzle pieces that made no sense. He almost pitied the man. 

“Good luck to you then. You’re going to need it.” 

John turned, and walked off before McCall could formulate a response. He had things to do, and he didn’t need a self righteous bastard making a fuss.

Parrish trailed after him, still looking confused, and far too pale. 

“Sir, I-”

“Don’t ask, Deputy. Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

The next few hours passed in a haze of flashes from evidence cameras, and hearing the words ‘masked swordsmen’ far too many times. The witnesses as a collective were traumatized and bewildered, but none of them noticed or mentioned a tall, slender boy with evil in his eyes directing the black figures. 

The most that could be gathered by the rest of the force was that somehow, the man in a black mast that had stabbed Agent McCall had multiplied into two, and they’d effectively and brutally ravaged three hallways worth of doctors, nurses, and patients. There were fifteen dead, and twenty-six wounded. 

The reporters were gathering, like John had already scene, and he could hear their ruckus from inside the hospital. Half his force was tasked with keeping them outside, and helping the workers who were still going to and fro from being harassed. 

It was only when he _finally_ left for home that he actually heard the questions they were shouting at him, and anyone who passed by. 

“Sheriff! What actually happened here tonight?”

“Does this massacre have anything to do with all the deaths two months ago?”

“Where were the police while this atrocity happened?”

They didn’t know anything, but John still winced at their jabs. Yes, he knew exactly what happened here. He could never tell anyone. Yes, it had everything to do with the deaths two months ago. One in particular- Stiles, who died and came back with an open door in his head, through which the nogitsune had trespassed. As to where the police had been, they too were under attack by two more of the masked men, and there wasn’t anything they could have done to stop them either, except fall under their swords. 

All this would be nonsense to the reporters. It’d be nonsense to Agent McCall, and to Deputy Parrish, who watched his departure with questioning eyes, as he walked to his own car. 

Ah, well. He didn’t need to talk to the reporters. Not tonight, anyway. 

It was a relief to sit in the seat of his car. The sun was already up, and slanting over the trees and buildings of the town. He realized it was already about nine in the morning. He’d last seen Stiles six hours ago. 

Starting the car, John rubbed a hand over his face. Seeing Stiles, his Stiles, suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. 

 

*******

 

The city of Beacon Hills was quiet in the midmorning light. It was a Tuesday, so students went to school, adults went to work, and life moved on for many people. But not all of them. The report on the hospital massacre was being played on three news stations in the city, and was breaking news around the country. The families of the dead were being informed before any names were released, so there was an air of mystery-especially when the reports included the words ‘masked samurai’ and ‘swords’. The nation was in an uproar, and gun control activists were rising up in waves (regardless of the fact that the attack involved no guns at all).

Only slightly lesser news was the attack on the police station, putting the number of terrorists (that was what they were calling them) at four. This was surprisingly correct, but since the manhunt was on, those in the know wished they could reassure the families that the threat from these terrorists was gone. But how could you tell grieving families that the perpetrators were dead by silver arrow, and their controller had dissolved into dust?

Briefly mentioned on two of the stations was a blip about a student death from mugging, but no one had made the connection yet. 

Scott McCall, alpha werewolf of Beacon Hills, was thankfully sleeping, after a long hour of tossing and turning and trying to stifle his tears. Melissa had slept as well, but was woken up by the Beacon Hills High School Attendance Office calling to ask where Scott and Isaac were. Melissa knew Isaac was with Chris, and there was no way either him or Scott was going to school today, so she quickly excused both, saying they weren’t feeling well. It was definitely true.

Isaac was snoring upright on Chris Argent’s couch, with the man himself next to him. They would be dead to the world for another four hours before the sun slanted in the window just enough to hit Chris in the eyes. 

Kira was not asleep, but she is in bed, with her mother sitting on the side and stroking her hair. Noshiko was telling Kira everything she promised to, from her earliest days as a kitsune spirit, to meeting and marrying her father. It was a very long story. 

Derek was dropping off Ethan at the apartment he had shared with Aiden. Aiden’s body was wrapped in a blanket and taking up the back seat of the car, and Derek was glad it was still early. There was no one around to see, but still. Derek had suggested asking the Sheriff to help, report the body, but Ethan had refused. He didn’t know what traditions Ethan had for the dead, but he wasn’t about to intrude. He left Ethan there, and went home to sleep, his promise to Aiden ringing in his ears. 

Sheriff Stilinski was almost home, finally, after a drawn out thirty six hours. His mind was filling and swirling with all the things he still needed to do, like schedule another MRI for Stiles, to make sure that the nogitsune’s trick was just that, and figure out if they had any food in the house at all. He counted back the days, and realized that Stiles had been admitted to the hospital the first time, after sleepwalking out to the woods, only a little over a week ago. It felt like a year. 

At the Sheriff’s house the sound of a key in the door jolted Lydia from a light sleep. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, or why her body was cramped into a curl and half tingling from lack of circulation, or why she felt so warm. Then, the scratchiness of the arm of the couch against her cheek, and the now familiar smell of the Stilinski household brought back memories of last night, and how she hadn’t made it any further than Stiles’ couch. Stiles himself was on the other end, taking up more than his fair share. He was practically sprawled on top of her, his legs heavy and warm on hers. 

Stiles hadn’t stirred at the noise of the door opening, or her slight movements, and Lydia was desperately glad for it. He still looked exhausted, with deep reddish purple circles under his eyes, but he was soundly asleep, and snoring lightly into his own arm. 

Steps came into the kitchen from the front door, the Sheriff, Lydia assumed, and Lydia realized that it was still morning. Everything that had happened, it all had taken place only last night. They had defeated the nogitsune, they had won, and they had also lost more than was bearable. 

In the stillness of the house, with only Stiles’ breathing and the soft shuffling of the Sheriff’s footfalls, Lydia remembered Allison. It was surprising how quickly her eyes filled with tears. A sob, maybe even a scream built in her throat, but she pressed it back. She didn’t want to wake Stiles. 

Lydia sniffled, and considered how to extracate herself from the couch, when she felt someone looking at them. Twisting her head, Lydia saw the Sheriff standing in the doorway, almost smiling at the two of them. He gave a little wave of his fingers, before noticing her tears, and frowning. She smiled tremulously back, and wiped at her cheeks, before carefully shifitng out from under Stiles. Sheriff Stilinski came closer to lift the leg that was pinning her most, and allow her to slip off the couch. He then started to stretch Stiles out along the couch, but Stiles began to mumble, moving restlessly for a moment. The Sheriff froze, waiting to see if he’d wake fully. But, Stiles settled back, and snored again, causing both of his watchers to let out sighs of relief. 

That done, the Sheriff tucked his son in a little tighter, pulling the blanket up to his chin, before turning to Lydia. With a careful touch to her elbow, he led her out of the living room, and to the kitchen table before saying anything. 

“You okay?” He whispered, and Lydia sniffled again, eyes burning. She didn’t want to lie to him. She wasn’t okay, not by a mile, not with her throat thick with grief, and anger simmering in her chest. She didn’t know if she’d ever be okay again. So, Lydia shrugged for the Sheriff. It was as much of an answer as she could muster. 

The Sheriff looked at her in pained understanding, and Lydia felt her heart tighten at that, remembering what had happened to Stiles’ mother. Then, he scratched is head in a gesture so like Stiles she almost smiled. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asked softly, then he frowned. “I actually have no idea what we have, but…” 

Lydia knew it had been hours, maybe the whole day since she’d eaten anything, and as if on cue, her middle let out a rumble. She looked down at it in surprise; she’d felt as if normal activities like eating would never occur to her again. She looked up at him, to see the remains of a smile on Sheriff’s face. 

“I don’t want to be a bother…” Making a dismissive noise, he waved a hand and then went over to the cupboards. Rifling through them he pulled out a box of Wheaties, and a packet of oatmeal, before going to the fridge. Pulling out the carton of milk, he opened it and took a whiff before jerking his head back, and snapping the lid back on. 

“Damn, I was afraid of that. Oatmeal?”

Lydia smiled, and nodded, taking the packet and the bowl he’d also gotten out. She prepared it the way she liked it (extra thick), opening the microwave before it could beep, while Sheriff got his own bowl ready. Then, they sat down at the table, and began eating. Both of them were hungry, and the food was quickly finished. 

Sheriff scraped the last of the oatmeal from his bowl, and then put his head on his hand. He still looked exhausted. 

“I should probably acquire more food for when Stiles wakes up. Who knows how long it’s been since he’s eaten anything.” 

Lydia frowned. “Have you slept yet?”

Dropping his spoon, the Sheriff ran both hands down his face, yawning mightily. 

“No, not yet.” 

“You should. Stiles can have oatmeal when he gets up.” Lydia said. It had actually been warm and satisfying. 

The Sheriff pulled his hands away, and looked at her. 

“What is it with teenagers, and lectures about my health?” He asked, smiling. “Stiles does that all the time.”

Lydia smiled too, wider. “He loves you, so he thinks its his job.” 

A nod, and then the Sheriff was looking at her closer. 

“We should call your parents. They’ll probably be getting an attendance call from the school.”

Right, school. Her parents, normal life. It all seemed a life time away, and so much had happened. She had to go back to school, and live on without her best friend. She had to sit in class and look at her empty seat as it got filled by some other person who wasn’t her. The Sheriff put a hand out into the air, like he was going to comfort her, but didn’t know how. She must have looked upset. 

“Sorry,” Lydia rasped, wiping again at her face, and pushing back the grief. She’d get to it, but not now. Not in front of Stiles’ sleep deprived father. But the idea of talking to her mom, explaining things to her made her weak with weariness. “Can-can you call my mom?” 

The Sheriff nodded. “Of course.” He took his phone out, and went to stand, punching in the number for her mom’s cell phone as Lydia said it. He moved towards the front door, to make the call on the porch. Lydia called out. 

“What will you say?” 

The Sheriff turned back, and tapped the phone against his finger. 

“I’ll tell them the truth, as much as I can. Barring discussion about oni and nogitsune, I think I can get them to let you stay home from school.” He tilted his head. “After, do you want me to take you home?”

Lydia shook her head immediately. Being around people who didn’t know, who might ask for explanations, sounded awful. “Can I stay here for a while?” 

The Sheriff smiled tiredly. “Sure thing. Stiles’ room is obviously empty.”

He took the phone, and closed the door, and Lydia was suddenly alone in the foyer. If she listened hard, she could still hear Stiles snoring -louder now- in the living room. The rest of the house was quiet. 

Barefoot, and with her hair loose and tangled around her face, she wandered the house, trying not to think. She ended up in the living room again for a few minutes, and watched Stiles breathe, so very glad he was alive. Then, she moved upstairs. Distantly, she heard Stiles’ father come back in, and trudge up to his own room, but she didn’t go talk to him again, closing the door to Stiles’ room. 

She felt insubstantial, ghost-like, but grief and turmoil floated just above her, like it was waiting for her to let her guard down. The five-ish hours she’d slept on the couch weren’t enough, and she felt like she could lay down, and sleep for a week. Lydia walked into Stiles’ bathroom, half smirking at the piles of laundry on the floor, and the toothpaste smears in the sink. Then the corners of her lips fell when she saw the dust coating the surface of the counter, the sink. Of course he hadn’t been here to use it. Lydia doubted the nogitsune would do something as banal as brush Stiles’ teeth. 

Lydia sighed, and grabbed a bunched up towel on the floor, and wiped at the counter, until the surface was clear of dust. She dropped it again, turned on the shower, and then started striping off her clothes. The noise of the water filled the silence, and drowned out the beginning of the sobs. The grief spread through her in the solitude and the steam, and Lydia let it come, whispering ‘no’ over and over again. But never screaming, not yet. 

She didn’t come out for a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up. Finally!

Stiles’ brain felt like fuzz when he woke up, like the static of a television combined with the stuffing of a pillow. His mouth tasted similar. 

“Blah” He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and swirled it around his teeth. Definitely fuzzy. Felt like something had died in there. 

Stiles closed his eyes, and rubbed his face, movement feeling lethargic, like after anesthesia. His body was achy, and weak still, but he felt ...rested. He hadn’t woken with screaming nightmares, or in tears, or anything. It was...supremely weird. 

He was still on the couch (which might be part of the reason for the aching) and Lydia had vacated the other end at some point. Stiles vaguely recalled her staying last night, er...this morning? What time even was it?

Twisting around, he looked at the window, then the clock on DVD player. It said 1:45, and it didn’t look dark enough to be night time, but his sense of time _was_ completely screwed up. Guess being possessed would do that to you. 

Suppressing a shudder and a flash of nausea, (guess his subconscious wasn’t ready to joke about that quite yet), Stiles pushed that thought away, and sat up against the back of the couch. He decided that whatever time it was, he should get up and start trying to reestablish normal bodily habits. Like a drink, first thing. Then peeing. Maybe food, if his stomach calmed down. He ran his hands through his hair, and it stuck straight up without gel. A shower. Definitely. He should probably find his dad as well, and give him the biggest hug. God, he wanted that first. 

Clearing the lump from his throat, Stiles shifted forward, and levered himself up into a standing position. 

“Woah…” Stiles’ head spun, and he stumbled forward into the wall beside the television. “Okay, legs still not functioning properly. Great.” Last night, he’d had Lydia’s arm around his waist the whole time. It was the only comforting thing about any of it. He wondered if she’d gone home. 

Slightly steadier, Stiles walked into the kitchen, and stuck his head under the tap, gulping a few swallows of warm water. It was freaking delicious, but he forced himself to stop after too short a time. 

“Not too fast there, buddy.” He murmured, facts flitting through his mind about dehydration. The water was great, but his stomach was already sloshing, and food sounded terrible, even though he knew he must be starving. Literally, probably. He forced himself to eat a cracker, and then he detoured to the bathroom in the hall. Once done there, he shuffled upstairs, holding on to the wall for support when he needed it, but generally more steady. 

As he walked slowly up the stairs, he tried not to think about anything in particular. His thoughts were already scattered, scrambled by the lack of sleep, medication and everything else humans needed to function, but he really didn’t want to remember everything just yet. 

The hospital. Scott. His dad. The nogitsune. Allison. All of it.

Dammit, he said he didn’t want to remember. At the top of the stairs, his legs weakened. Putting his hand out, Stiles stopped himself from falling forward, and breathed hard for a second. This wasn’t a panic attack, this wasn’t a panic attack, but so many people had died, _Allison_ had died, and it was all because he’d let the nogitsune in, it was his fault, and it could come back and Stiles couldn’t stop it, and oh god this was totally a panic attack…

Stiles leaned on the wall, his other hand clenching into his chest, his shirt bunching, and he hoped no one was home, that no one had to see him like this, because tears were running down his cheeks, and his face was burning, and this wasn’t the time for this! He didn’t deserve to break down, it- it was 

“It was... my fault,” He gasped, wheezing in between words. He was alone, and shaking, and he deserved it, he deserved it all. 

Then, the doors to both his father’s bedroom and his opened, one after the other. His dad hurried out, looking sleep rumpled and exhausted, but not alarmed. Nothing new here, just Stiles on the ground, freaking out.

“Dad-” He choked, looking up. He was still standing, wavering, and his dad put his arm around his waist, and Stiles couldn’t stop himself from leaning against him. 

“Stiles, what is it? Nightmare?” His dad asked, but Stiles shook his head. 

“Anxiety...attack. No big deal…” He gasped, and dipped his head. “Wait...who--?” He remembered that the second door had opened, the one from his room, and suddenly he just _knew_ it was the nogitsune that had come out, and was waiting for him to look up, to stare at him with his own cold eyes, and jump inside him again. His heart skipped a beat, and he gripped his chest, feeling his breaths pump in and out too fast to count. Only his dad’s arm stopped him from falling to the ground. 

Another pair of hands was on him, and Stiles scrambled away, before looking up into Lydia’s face, close and worried, and so startling. Lydia was here. Not the nogitsune. Never that thing again. He choked, and panted, on his hands and knees with his dad’s hands on his back, and voice in his ears telling him to _just breathe, Stiles, in and out._

“Lydia--? What are ...you doing--?” 

Lydia looked as scared as she had that day in the locker room, her eyes wide and rimmed in red. 

“Come on, Stiles, look at me. We’ve done this before.” His dad tapped the side of his face, turning his head to meet his eyes. Dad, looking competent, and calm, which alone helped Stiles breathe a little slower. “Out on one, in on two. Come on now, son. One.” 

Stiles tried, blowing out. 

“Two.” 

His chest hitched twice in the middle, but he got a breath in. 

“One.”

Stiles puffed his cheeks and blew out hard. He breathed in again, and then out as his father counted, and he relished the feeling of his heart slowing down. Lydia and his father were both running hands along his back, and Stiles’ head was spinning as the oxygen came back into his system. His dad spoke softly to Lydia, and she left for a moment, before returning with his old pillow. He immediately grabbed it and held it to his chest, burying his mouth in the top. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled through the fabric. His dad petted his hair, before ruffling it a little. 

“It’s fine, son. You’re okay.” He said. Stiles glanced at him, and then Lydia. He noticed that she looked like she’d been sleeping too, with her hair damp and mussed, and dressed in some of his clothes. Ah, to think that long ago, he’d dreamed of her in his clothes, and now it’s happened, he’s sitting on the floor, clutching his pillow like a little kid. Oh, well. 

“Hey, Lydia,” He whispered, and then half smiled, “At least you didn’t have to kiss me again.”

A small smile broke through her worry, and she gently shoved his shoulder. His dad rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too, and for a moment, everything was fine. 

“Are you okay?” Lydia then asked. Of course, it couldn’t last. Still, he nodded. For now that was as good of an answer as he could come up with. 

“Did you just wake up?” His dad asked, and Stiles glanced at him, nodding again. 

“A little while ago.”

“Do you want anything? Now that I’m up, I can go to the store. We don’t exactly have much food…” 

Stiles leaned back heavier against the wall, shaking his head. “Don’t exactly have much of an appetite. I ate a cracker, though…” 

Yup, one cracker to stave off starvation of a week and a half of possession. His dad didn’t approve, he could see it on his face. But, nagging was never something his dad did to him; that street really only went one way. Stiles was sure he’d be glad of that in the coming days. Deciding to get off the floor, Stiles got his feet under him, and pushed up the wall, slowly. Lydia and his dad came with him, helping him stay steady. God, he was ready for this dizzy thing to stop happening. 

His dad watched him, and something in his face, made Stiles step forward and fall into his arms. A hug from his dad had been on his to do list, after all. His dad smelled like soap, and it was the best thing he’d ever smelled. Dad hugged him back hard, each burying their faces in the other’s shoulders. 

“God, Stiles. I’m so glad you’re alright!” His dad whispered roughly. Stiles pulled back a little, and tried to smile. 

“Alright might be a little relative, but yeah, me too.” And somehow, he was. Mostly. He’d been ready to die yesterday. The guilt, and anguish had been overwhelming, but today, in the sunlight, he was okay with surviving. He met his dad’s eyes, and managed to keep his lips from trembling. “Glad you’re okay too.” 

Stepped back, Stiles saw Lydia smiling at them both. He managed a little quirk to the side of his mouth, and rubbed his head. Which reminded him that he was absolutely gross, and needed a shower desperately. 

His dad yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll be catching up on some much needed sleep.” 

Stiles frowned. “Doesn’t the station need you?”

His dad smiled, and clapped his shoulder. “I’m flattered, but the station can get along without me for twelve hours. Everyone who was in the attack on the station got some leave to catch up on sleep. The rest of the force is handling everything.”

“What happened at the hospital?” Stiles asked, his stomach starting to squirm again. “Are Scott’s parents alright?”

To his relief, his dad nodded. “They went home last night. The hospital...it wasn’t pretty.”

Stiles felt shaking start up all along his body. 

“How many dead?”

“Stiles-”

“How many, Dad?” Stiles exclaimed. His knees loosened a bit, but Lydia fitted herself against his side, and held him up. His dad looked like the last thing he wanted to do was tell him, but dammit, Stiles needed to know. “Dad!”

Looking grim, the Sheriff replied. “Gutierrez at the station, the rest of us were okay. Fifteen dead, twenty-six wounded at the hospital.” 

Stiles’ head spun again, and he stumbled backwards, too heavy for Lydia to hold steady until he was leaning on the wall again. 

“Stiles, breathe, okay?” Lydia said, and Stiles nodded. He wasn’t panicking, but the guilt that he’d thought had been at its worst last night, multiplied again, pressing down on him and filling his chest. 

His dad stepped forward again, and gripped the sides of his face, so he had to look up at him. It was hard to see as his eyes filled with tears. 

“Stiles, listen to me. It was not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay?” Stiles dropped his eyes, because his dad had to be lying. How was anything that had happened not his fault when it had been his own hands, his own face? People died, Allison died, and he lived. Why?

“Stiles, really, none of us blame you.” Lydia whispered at his side, voice choked. 

“It’s not your fault, son.” His dad held his face, and stroked his hair, and damn him for taking comfort in that. Sucking in a breath, Stiles rubbed his wrist across his eyes hard, and then pulled away from both of them. Holding on to the wall, he tried to calm down, tried to avoid falling into that pit of darkness in his chest, the one that the nogitsune had fed off of, and used to control him. The one that had been there since the sacrifice, since his mother died, maybe was just a part of him since birth. Stiles rubbed his face, and tried to just feel embarrassed. After all, that was the second or third time he’d broken down in front of Lydia. Embarrassment was a safe emotion, right? 

Blowing out, and then breathing in deliberately, Stiles pushed it down, pushed it all away. He needed to clean up, eat something, sleep some more. He could feel bad later, but he was scaring his two watchers, so dammit, Stiles take control!

“I’m gonna shower.” He said, and his dad nodded. He reached out one more time, but Stiles flinched back; he didn’t deserve the comfort his dad’s touch brought him, Lydia’s either. Nodding, his dad went back into his room, leaving the door ajar. Lydia was left alone with him, and Stiles realized that she’d been so silent throughout all of this. Looking at her again, he saw that tears tracked down her face, and her make up was completely gone. She looked small in his clothes, and childlike. She was hurting, and he’d been thinking only of himself. 

“Are you okay?” He asked her, deciding not to be selfish for the rest of forever, if it made Lydia Martin look at him like this. 

Twisting her mouth, she shrugged. 

“I’m alright. You?” 

A startled laugh burst out of him, though it sounded twisted and dark to his ears. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Obviously.” 

He used the wall to walk into his room, and Lydia followed, hovering in the doorway. He unsteadily gathered clean clothes from the drawer, disturbed at how the whole place smelled stale, since no one had been in in over a week. He avoided looking at the walls, at the red string that spider webbed across them, at the set up chess board with the sticky notes on the desk. Just get the clothes, don’t trip on anything, don’t look up. 

“Do you want me to go?” Lydia asked from the doorway, and Stiles turned his head. He didn’t even know why she was still here. In truth, no, he didn’t want her to go. She was a comfort, someone who could break him out of the spirals of guilt and anguish and fear, and who held him up _literally_ all through this mess. Which was exactly why she needed to get away from him. She was hurting, and broken because of all of this, she didn’t need to worry about him too. 

“Yeah, I guess.” He murmured, trying to sound casual. Then he stopped, and put a palm to his head. “Oh, shit, you drove here in my car. Do you want a ride home?” 

Biting her lips into a tight smile, Lydia shook her head. “I’ll call my mom.”

Stiles, clutching his bundle of clothes, nodded quickly. “Okay, then.” 

Nodding herself, Lydia knocked against the edge of the door frame, a movement he was starting to recognize as something of a nervous habit from her. “Alright. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Quirking his own lips into a sort of smile, he nodded. “Yeah, will do.” 

Lydia turned, and then turned back. 

“And shower, for heaven’s sake. You smell like the locker room.” 

Startled laughter broke through his chest, as she disappeared down the hallway, and Stiles found himself looking at the doorway where she’d stood in fondness. Ah, Lydia. She’d always surprise him, he thought. 

Letting out a gusty breath, Stiles ducked into the bathroom, and turned on the tap to let it warm up. At least in the small room, there was no sign of his previous insanity. Just the slight remains of steam from Lydia’s shower, and his own, regular, mess. Nothing weird at all. No indication of the last however long it had been since he’d been himself and only that, no reason for why he was avoiding the mirror, afraid to see his own eyes darken, see his hands reach out to kill. Just, normal teenage clutter, and a normal teenager going to take a shower. Yeah...

Except a normal teenager didn’t usually have protruding ribs and hipbones from losing so much weight, or sick dehydrated skin, or a healing scab across his stomach where a kitsune blade had sliced him open and allowed a cloud of flies to escape. 

Stiles had avoided the mirror, but he forgot what was under his clothes. Gagging, Stiles dropped the shirt he’d pulled off, fell to his knees in front the toilet, and threw up bile, and the mush of one single cracker, retching for ages before his stomach calmed down. Breathing harshly, blinking back tears of effort and anguish, Stiles fell backwards against the closed door, shaking. 

“Dammit,” He whispered, and then continued. “Damn, shit, shit, _fucking_ , shit...ah, hell.” He tried to think of other words, but his mind was blanking, and so instead he pressed his hands to his face. His skin was hot and sweaty, and he felt disgusting in more ways than one. 

There was a quiet tap on the hall door above his head. 

“Stiles, you okay?” His dad called over the sound of the water.

Swallowing, Stiles moved his hands into his hair, tugging hard, before answering. 

“Uh, yeah. Gonna shower.” 

There was a long pause, wherein Stiles closed his eyes, and wished his lie could be believed. No way in hell was he okay, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d be fine eventually. Or something. 

“I’m gonna head to the store. Do you want anything?” His dad called out, and Stiles felt another flash of nausea at the thought of whatever food his dad would bring. 

“No, no thanks. I’m not hungry.” He hoped that would be enough, but his dad sighed loud enough to be heard. 

“I’ll get you some light stuff, okay? You gotta eat something.” 

“Dad, I’m not sick.” Well, not exactly. It’s not like this was a cold or something, and a bowl of soup would make it better. But, he could almost hear his dad putting his foot down. Which...really didn’t happen all that often. He was almost impressed. 

“I’m getting pudding, white rice, and bananas, and you’re going to eat one of the options. Preferably all three.” 

He was waiting for a response. Rolling his eyes upwards, Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh, and threw up his hands. 

“Fine, dad.”

“Kay, I’ll be back.” And the footsteps led away. Stiles sighed, and dropped his head into his hands again. Was this the way it was gonna be? People nagging him to eat, and drink and sleep, and _c’mon Stiles let’s sit down and talk about this_. 

Yeah, right. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to remember at all. 

Not a single minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So, thank you for the kudos and the bookmarks, but I miss hearing from you! Let me know if you're enjoying this, or if you have any suggestions. I think I'll be posting on Mondays from now one, in the void that Teen Wolf left that night.   
> Also, I know you probably don't care, but I don't usually write the f-bomb, but Stiles would have his way.   
> Anyway, I hope this is all reading well. I'm trying to listen to the characters, and really write what they would be thinking and doing, but obviously, I'm not Jeff Davis, and I don't know for sure. There is a slow moving plot happening here as well, and the story itself will probably be close to 50k- or about 20-25 chapters. Hope you all stay for the long haul.   
> Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia has a surprise visitor. Melissa makes enchiladas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did some math, and I realized that a chapter a week already extends far beyond the premeire of season four, based on what I already have written. Therefore, moving updates up to two chapters a week. Yay!

When Lydia’s mom had come to pick her up at the Stilinski’s house, Lydia hadn’t even been able to muster a smile to reassure her mother’s worried face. She assumed that the Sheriff had told her about Alli-about her, which was why her mom swooped her into a hug first thing. Lydia could hear Stiles’ shower upstairs, and the sympathetic whispers in her ear, as her mom tried to soothe emotions she wasn’t showing. She only felt dazed actually, nothing was processing. 

She took Lydia home, encouraged her to eat, to shower, to sleep (she’d done all that at Stiles’ house)...but Lydia just sat on her bed, and let her mother stroke her hair. She knew she was scaring her, but there was a blank nothing in the front of her thoughts. Under that was a big scary _everything_ , and she didn’t want to let that out. 

She just ran her fingers over the shorts she’d taken from Stiles, feeling the little Nike logo embroidered on the edge. They were hideous and too bright a blue, almost teal. Why Stiles would have shorts in such a color she couldn’t fathom, but that was true of a lot of what Stiles did. 

“Honey, do you want some tea?” Her mom whispered, hand on her head. Lydia thought about it. Tea was safe. Alli-, she’d never liked tea, and Lydia never even thought of drinking it with her. 

“Tea would be fine.” Lydia replied, in a hoarse voice. Her mother stroked her tangles one more time, and rose, full of grace, to go make it exactly the way she liked it. 

She admired her mother so much. Beauty and elegance combined with whip-like wit, and bottomless intelligence. Dr. Susan Martin, double Ph. D. and winner of countless physics medals, was an inspiration to her daughter in more ways than one. Of course, she was silly in the way that mothers often were, grinning at her daughter, and teasing her to not embarrass her. But, she was well respected in the scientific community, traveling around the country to give lectures and speak with the great minds. Lydia was so proud. 

(Her father never deserved her. He was a generic businessman, who could never believe women could be successful, let alone ten times smarter than him. He’d never believed Lydia’s grades, of the unspoken but known opinion that she must be cheating somehow, even in elementary school, when the test results put her straight into the gifted program all through middle school.)

She was still staring when her mom came back, carrying a cup of white pomegranate tea with just a dribble of honey in it. Lydia took it, whispering, 

“Thank you,”

She felt more than saw her mom smile at her sadly, and reach to stroke her hair again. Her hair was a mess, she knew. She probably looked awful. Stiles had a comb, and gel in his bathroom, but not much else, and his shampoo was harsh on her hair, so she’d just left the tangles. Then, she’d slept on the wet hair, drying it into knots. The bed was unwelcoming, with a hole through the mattress from the night scissors had been jammed through, but she’d still slept for an hour or two on his musty sheets, before his panic attack in the hallway woke her up. 

Her mother hummed a little, and then stroked her cheek. 

“I’ll get the brush.” 

Lydia nodded, and put the untouched tea on the bedside table, before moving softly to the bench by the vanity. She sat, and her mother stood behind her, working at the tangles. The long even brush strokes assuaged the emotions that roiled just below her surface calm. 

She felt her mom begin to braid her hair down her back, her fingers soft and gentle. 

“I’m sorry, honey.” Her mom said quietly, and Lydia broke. It wasn’t so much she started thinking about Allison, but that she let go of every other topic that wasn’t her. The haze cleared like a bolt of lightning through a cloud, and everything was _so clear_. Agony and anger, and the stupid, undeniable fact that she was gone. She let out a gasp, and her sore eyes filled and overflowed. Pressure built in her chest, like she wanted to scream, but only sobs broke out. 

Her mom sat beside her quickly, turning her into a tight hug. Lydia struggled, pushing away, and gripping her mom’s arms with tight fingers. She wanted to beat on the floor, break windows, and call down thunderstorms. 

“No, no, no, no, Mom! How could she do this do me!” She sobbed, her face and heart breaking, gasps between the words. “Why? Why her!”

Her wrath was a tangible thing. It made her want to destroy, to wreak vengeance on those responsible, to disintegrate the nogitsune and the oni, and the nemeton and all other evil in the world. But, it was over, there was nothing left to fight, and she floundered, frustration and vibrations of what felt like power moving through her body. 

She was a banshee, and she would have moved mountains to save her Allison.

But none of it made a difference. Her warning on the car, through Meredith, they were for nothing. Her friends came riding in to her rescue, and Allison’s death. Why was she always too late? Research told her she was a harbinger of death, not an announcer after the fact, so _why_ couldn’t she save Allison? Anyone? _Why?_

Her mother pulled her tighter, pinning her struggles, and letting her rage turn into hard crying. Shushing noises, and soothing rocking did little, but eventually, Lydia calmed herself. 

She pulled back from her mother’s shoulder, sniffling but not embarrassed. Her mom had tear tracks as well, sympathetic pain for her daughter, but the sight comforted her. The whole world should cry. Her mom moved a strand of hair behind her ear, but didn’t say anything. 

Then, the moment was broken by the sound of the doorbell. 

Her mom moved back, and looked her in the face. 

“Do you want to ignore it?” She asked. Lydia knew that after all that had happened, it was probably for her. Maybe Scott coming to check on her? She didn’t exactly _want_ to see someone else right now, but she couldn’t very well turn them away, so she sighed, and shook her head.

Her mom smiled a little, and handed her one of her cucumber facial wipes to clean her face and soothe her burning eyes, before standing and going to get the door. Lydia wiped at her face, and tried to prepare herself to seeing someone else right now, pulling on a semblance of that old mask, and smiling once to try it out. 

Ugh, it felt awful. Ah, well. No one would expect her to smile right now. 

A few minutes later, her mom came back with Derek of all people in tow. She looked confused, and slightly alarmed at the tall, dark and adult man who wants to see her teenage daughter, but Lydia nodded that he could come in. 

“Derek?” She asked, once her mom left. “What are you doing here?” 

Not that it was a problem, him coming to see her. It was just strange. They hardly interacted, and to hear Stiles talk about him, Derek was a grumpy, anti-social sourpuss, who never missed an opportunity to get on Stiles’ nerves. Still, he looked almost puppy-like, sheepishly shoving his hands in his pockets, wearing a long sleeve shirt that covered his knuckles. Good thing, too, as it probably would have given her mom apoplexy to see him in his full leather clad persona, complete with glaring. 

He shrugged slightly, and tried not to lurk. “Came to see how you were doing.” He said. Lydia raised an eyebrow in confusion, still not sure if Derek was just making the rounds. 

“Oh,” She said. “Well, I’m...as well as can be expected, I guess.” 

Derek nodded, looking glad. Awkwardness was rolling off him, and she guessed he didn’t actually have much experience not growling and being intimidating. 

“That’s good. I’m glad.” He said, and Lydia realized that his voice was softer than she’d always thought. She tilted her head. 

“You?”

Derek nodded again. “Yeah, I’m fine. Uh, Aiden...he asked me to tell you something.” 

Lydia’s eyes widened. It wasn’t that she forgot about Aiden’s death, but Allison’s had overshadowed all her feelings about it. It was Allison she loved, and it hadn’t been Aiden. But, now thinking about it, there was a stab in her heart that belonged to him. She’d cared, she thought firmly.

She rolled her lips in to bite them, and nodded for Derek to go on. He met her eyes. 

“I told him, I’d tell you that he was one of the good guys. He died protecting us. In his last act, he did the right thing.” 

Lydia nodded. “I know he did.” She said softly. She knew. She cleared her throat. “How’s Ethan?”

Derek sighed. “I left them both at their apartment. Ethan wanted to be alone with him. It’s going to be hard for him.” 

Lydia remembered what she knew about some of Derek’s past. While he hadn’t lost a twin, he’d lost much family, and she thought he knew better than any of them what it was to lose a sibling. Though, if it was anything like how she felt losing Allison, the closest she’d ever come to a sister, then she felt her heart break a little more thinking about Ethan. 

“I’m glad you came and told me,” Lydia murmured, and Derek took that as his cue to shuffle backwards. Before he got out of the door, Lydia looked up and met his eyes, trying to show she really meant it. “Thank you.”

Derek smiled a little. She’d never seen him smile before, unless it was in triumph over Stiles in their spats, but this one was sweet. She smiled back. 

He left quietly, and Lydia stayed on his vanity bench. There wasn’t much to do. It was mid afternoon, and she had nothing going on, unless she wanted to seek out her piling up homework from the school she’d missed yesterday and today. Making a face, she pulled out her computer, and opened Netflix, searching for a long show, one that was fluffy and romantic and no one died. A TV binge sounded just about right. 

 

*****

 

Melissa McCall didn’t know when she was going to go back to work. The place had been torn up pretty badly, and the hospital definitely needed some time to get back on its feet, and start getting their patients back from the neighboring hospitals they’d been evacuated to. Melissa’s name was on the list of wounded, even though her leg was mostly healed, so she didn’t know how much time that would grant her off either. 

It probably couldn’t be better timing, in the aftermath of all this. It wouldn’t hurt her son to have his mother around right now, though it would hurt them to miss that complete paycheck. She blew out to get a strand of hair from her eyes, and then moved it with her wrist. Ah, well. If needs be, she could ask Rafe for an advance on his alimony check. 

Pushing the thought of money away, Melissa went back to what she was working on, which happened to be a pan of chicken enchiladas. She was in the process of rolling the tortillas full of sauce and chicken, and laying them out, while Scott hung out on the counter. He’d been quiet since he got up, just a little while ago. Melissa had looked in on him, and was grateful that he _had_ slept, but he still looked tired, dazed, and grief-stricken. 

She didn’t know what to do for him. She’d only ever had grandparents die, and this was a peer, a friend, a past lover. Sweet Allison, who her son had loved, and who always had a kind smile for Melissa. Who’d one time helped her save a stir fry meal in the kitchen, and who’d navigated a break up with Scott well enough to still be friends (something Melissa had never managed in her past relationships). She was gone, and Melissa knew that Scott would wear this wound on his heart forever. 

Oh, he’d go on with life. He’d find love again, and maybe again after that, and be happy and strong in whatever he chose to do. He’d protect his pack, and the town, and someday a family. He was that kind of person. But, Allison was his first of a lot of things, and now his first loss, and that never goes away. 

So, Melissa let him sit on the counter near her (something he wasn’t normally allowed to do) and offered him the spoon to lick every once in awhile. Melissa’s arms ached to take Scott and just wrap him up in her arms. To really be a _mom_ again, like she could when Scott was ten and had a scraped knee or a bump on the head (like he always did). She’d scoop him up, and put on a disney movie, eating popsicles while she cuddled him. 

Scott was taller than her, and cuddling wouldn’t fix much now.

The sun had gone down a while ago, and it was nearing dinner time. She sprinkled the cheddar cheese on all three pans, and put the one for them in the fridge. The others she put a sheet of tin foil over, stuck two sticky notes with the directions for cooking on each, and then handed one to Scott. 

“Carry that for me?” She asked. Scott slipped off the counter, holding the pan, and seemed to realize what his surroundings were for the first time since she started cooking. He frowned down at the foil, and then looked at her. 

“Why’d you make three?” He asked, his voice rough. She smiled gently, and picked up the other one. 

“One for Chris. One for John and Stiles. I doubt any of them feel like cooking right now.” 

Scott’s face tightened in pain, but he nodded, and gratitude shown in his eyes. There was probably some responsible feeling that Scott the Alpha should be taking care of his pack, but Melissa was glad to step up to the plate in that respect. Scott deserved to take a minute for himself to grieve. 

Suddenly, Scott stiffened, his head coming up. He’d heard something, and it was ridiculous that she always got the mental image of a hunting dog when he did   
that. 

“What is it?” She asked, just then, the doorbell rang, and then the door opened. There was only one person who did that. 

“Melissa? Scott?” It was Rafe, just waltzing in like he owned the place. Melissa rolled her eyes, and turned in time to see Scott disappear out the kitchen window. Putting her pan down, she hurried over, whispering harshly. 

“Scott, at least take the enchiladas!” She hissed. Scott slunk back, and reached out for the pan he’d left behind on the counter. Melissa sighed quickly, before leaning out to kiss his forehead. “Give Stiles a kiss from me.” She said, and he nodded quickly, pulling the pan to himself, and disappearing to the front yard. 

She turned around, and closed the window just before Rafael walked around the corner. 

“Rafe, what are you doing here?” Melissa asked, leaning on the windowsill. Rafael looked annoyed, (like always, honestly) and was looking around the kitchen like she was hiding something. Which, in fact, she was, but he didn’t know that.

“It’s later, Melissa. Where’s Scott?” He demanded, and Melissa suddenly saw all his tension, his confusion, and the determination to even wait as long as he had. She remembered strongly the feeling of knowing something was up, but having no idea. Drugs and gangs start to seem like the safe options, and when the person you love most lies straight to your face, it seems like your world is shattering a little each time. 

Letting out a sigh, Melissa walked in, and sat at the kitchen table. 

“He just left, Rafe.” As she spoke, she heard the motorcycle start up, and closed her eyes. 

“I’ll bet he did.” Rafael replied, and gestured to the outside of the house. “He could at least roll the bike further away, so I don’t have to hear him _actively_ avoiding me.” Rafael sat heavily next to her, and put his head in his hand. 

“You know what happened last night, Rafe. Give him a little while.” Melissa said, looking over at him. Rafael’s face tensed. 

“Do I know? His ex-girlfriend was killed, but what about the hospital? The station? They’re calling the samurai terrorists now, and no one knows where they went. You should see the evidence we picked up at the hospital- or should I say _lack_ of evidence, since Scott was so helpful.” 

Melissa winced at the accusing tone. She knew why he’d done it, but Scott should have waited for privacy to take care of the footage, not done it in front of his increasingly confused and angry father. Melissa rubbed her eyes, and then lightly at her leg. It didn’t hurt so much, as feel like it should hurt. Rafe noticed. 

“You alright? Your leg was pretty bad last night.” 

“I’m fine. Just one of those things that looks worse than it was.” 

Rafael blew out a breath, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Melissa, you had blood in your mouth. I was _sure_ you were dying, and then an hour later, you’re up and walking around. You _have_ to admit that something weird is going on.” He looked at her for a long moment, and Melissa didn’t know what to say. Then, his face changed, looked like something had just been proven to him, and it hurt him. 

“You know, don’t you? Something _is_ going on in this town, and Scott is right in the middle of it, and you know what it is!” 

Melissa leaned forward on her elbow, stretching her forehead and avoiding Rafael’s eyes. He leaned forward, getting agitated. 

“Liss, tell me. Please. I can help. Obviously, it’s something dangerous, and if you need protection-”

Against her will a huff broke free from her silence. Rafael was staring at her, but she had to laugh. Yeah, she probably thought it would be helpful legally for him to know, but as far as protection? What were FBI issue guns against ancient spirits, or darachs, or alpha werewolves? It was up to Scott, anyway. 

“What are you laughing at?” Rafe demanded. Melissa calmed, smiled sympathetically, and put a hand on his. 

“Please, Rafe. It’s not something I can explain, not without Scott. Just stop trying to pry it out of him. Scott will tell you when he’d ready, not before. He got your stubbornness, after all.”

Pulling back, Rafael folded his arms, and pouted. 

“I think he got yours.”

“Mm, well.” Melissa stood then, and retrieved the enchilada from the counter, and handed it to Rafe. “Help me carry this to the car. Chris Argent is not going to cook tonight, if I can help it.”

Rafael took the pan, and looked heavenward, as if wondering how he ever got mixed up in this crazy family. Melissa didn’t really know. 

 

****

Sneak Peek for next time!

The first thing Scott thought when Stiles answered the door was gosh, he looks tired. His eyes were still sunken in shadow, and he was pale and sick looking, leaning on the door frame. He was wearing soft plaid pants, and a tee shirt that Scott thought was the Sheriff’s, since it was too big and hung around his protruding collar bones. But, even as bad as he looked, he still was slightly better than last night, so Scott counted that was a good thing. 

Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott brings food and comfort to Stiles.

The first thing Scott thought when Stiles answered the door was _gosh, he looks tired._ His eyes were still sunken in shadow, and he was pale and sick looking, leaning on the door frame. He was wearing soft plaid pants, and a tee shirt that Scott thought was the Sheriff’s, since it was too big and hung around his protruding collar bones. But, even as bad as he looked, he still was slightly better than last night, so Scott counted that was a good thing. The second thing was how amazingly glad he was that Stiles had survived. Stiles had answered the door after two separate knocks, and the door bell. Scott figured he didn’t want any visitors, but Scott hoped he could be an exception. 

“Hey,” He greeted, not able to come up with anything else. Stiles breathed out, and quirked one side of his mouth. 

“Hey.” Stiles replied, stuffing his hands under his armpits. The air outside was chilly, and Scott felt bad about letting out all their heat, but Stiles hadn’t moved back yet. 

“Uh, can I come in? My mom made casserole.”

Stiles squinted down at the foil. “The sticky note says enchiladas.”

Scott squinted down, and read the upside-down note with the cooking instructions. He really hadn’t been paying attention while his mom had cooked, but, yeah, of course she’d make enchiladas. They were about the only thing she could bake. 

“Uh, yeah. They are.” 

Stiles looked down, and shrugged, before moving back and letting him in. The sheriff’s car hadn’t been out front, so Scott figured Stiles was alone here, which really didn’t seem like a good idea, after all he’d been through. He resolved to stay, until Stiles’ dad got home, or Stiles physically kicked him out, no matter how much Stiles acted like he didn’t want him here. 

Honestly, it wasn’t that surprising. He’d acted the same right after his mom died. Grief and guilt made Stiles prickly and abrasive, with an extra large helping of sarcasm, but Scott could handle it. 

He walked with the enchiladas into the kitchen, and set the oven to preheat. The food would take about twenty minutes in the oven, so he set it down on the stove top, and turned around. Stiles had followed him into the kitchen, and was leaning on the wall-though he looked like he’d rather be sitting down. 

“Are you hungry?” Scott asked, pulling out the chair and sitting at the table. Stiles took that as his cue, and sat as well, on the other side of the table, and facing the room, not Scott. He looked blank as he replied. 

“Not really.” 

Scott wanted to ask if he’d eaten anything since getting home last night, or if he’d slept, but Stiles was already closed off looking, and Scott didn’t want to push him. He settled for hoping that the smell of the food would awaken Stiles’ appetite. His mom’s enchiladas were among both of their favorite dishes. 

Stiles shifted, bit his lip, and then looked up at him. “Scott, what are you doing here?” 

‘Checking up on you,’ floated to his lips, but instead, Scott said. “My dad is making a nuisance of himself. I was hoping I could hide out here?”

Stiles’ eyes widened a little, and then he nodded, shrugged. “Sure.” Something in his shoulders relaxed, and Stiles lifted his hands to play with his fingers. “So, uh, how’re you doing?”

Scott leaned on the table, remembering it all anew. It still all seemed so fresh and raw. He swallowed, and shrugged too. 

“Okay, I guess. You?”

The answer looked just as impossible for Stiles to answer, but he tried, twitching his shoulders and rubbing a finger against the other knuckle. 

“I dunno, man. Alive.” 

“Yeah,” Scott murmured. The air was thick again, and Scott was glad when the timer for the oven preheat went off. He got up, and took the foil and sticky note off the pan, reading the instructions again to be sure he didn’t mess it up. He slid the pan into the oven, and set the timer, before turning around. Stiles had vanished from his seat, and Scott stepped forward with a sudden jolt of panic. 

Then, he heard a plastic clacking from the living room. He moved to the door, and saw Stiles kneeling on the ground, and setting up his old Nintendo 64. He pushed in a brightly colored square, and Mario Kart popped up on the television screen. Finally, he looked up at Scott, and twisted one shoulder up. 

“Thought we could play?” 

Scott smiled slightly, and nodded, flipping off the kitchen light. He knew it cast a glare on the screen. They sat on the floor with the controllers in hand. They played until the enchiladas were done and cooled, and then Scott dished up them both food without asking if Stiles wanted it. Stiles didn’t say no, at least, and picked at the food in between races. Scott tried not to look too closely as Stiles actually finished his plate, not wanting to draw attention to it. 

The races were fun, full of friendly challenges, and pretending outrage at victories and defeats. They hadn’t played Mario Kart in forever, but they’d both gotten better at their reflexes since they were kids (Scott exponentially with the werewolfy-ness, but it didn’t really make much of a difference in video games), and so each grand-pre went by fast. It was good to forget everything for a while. It was a couple hours before Stiles put down the controller, looking suddenly like a limp noodle. 

Scott paused the game, and looked over in concern at Stiles, and then the DVD clock. It was almost nine o’clock, which wasn’t actually all that late for them, but Scott was feeling the last few days of sleep deprivation. He was sure it worse for Stiles. 

Stiles leaned back against the front of the couch, breathing a little heavier than normal. His eyes were hooded, and dark in the dim light from the screen. 

“Stiles, you okay?” Scott asked, and saw Stiles nod. 

“Just got really tired all of a sudden.” He murmured. 

“Want me to help you up to bed?” Scott asked. Stiles straightened a little, and shook his head. 

“No.” He said, firmly. “I’ll just camp down here.” 

Frowning, Scott looked at him, wondering why he wanted to sleep on the couch. Scott had been glad to sleep in his own bed this morning, after everything. But Stiles looked determined, staring down at his knees, and twitching two fingers against his pyjamas. Scott thought he probably shouldn’t argue, but he couldn’t quite leave it alone. 

“Are you sure? I could bring your mattress down, or your blankets?” Scott said, and saw Stiles stiffen, and then purposefully hitch his shoulders down.

“Nah, man. I gotta go up and brush my teeth and stuff. Why don’t you head home, I’ll be fine.” Stiles pushed himself up to a standing position, and Scott was glad to see that he was steadier than he had been. Scott stood as well, and fiddled with his jean pocket. 

“When is your dad getting home?” He asked. He stood by his decision to not leave Stiles alone, and he was kind of annoyed at Sheriff Stilinski for going back to work so soon-but Stiles did have a convincing act, and a hatred of being coddled. Scott didn’t want to leave for another reason, that being his dad wouldn’t come for him here, and here he could focus on Stiles being alive and not the loss of Allison.

Stiles took his question the way Scott thought he would, a full body eye roll, and his annoyance coming to the fore. 

“C’mon Scott, leave it alone. Dad doesn’t need to babysit me.” Stiles met his eyes firmly. “And neither do you.”   
Scott’s frustration expanded in his chest, and he threw out a hand. 

“Stiles, no one is trying to babysit you. I’m worried-”

“Don’t be.”

Scott clenched his jaw a little. “Stiles, you shouldn’t be alone after what you’ve been through.”

Stiles twitched his head to the side, pursing his lips. “Thank you for that reminder, I almost forgot what the past two   
months was like, thank you.” Scott rolled his own eyes to the ceiling. 

“Stiles-”

“Scott, you have no idea what it was like, okay!” Stiles voice got loud. “So, don’t hang around, thinking you can help, when you can’t. I just-” Stiles swallowed, broke off, and then started again quieter. “I just gotta get through this, man.” 

Scott stepped a little closer, timidly and pleadingly. “I do know, a little.” Stiles started to scoff, but Scott continued. “Remember when I was first bit? Peter was controlling me, making me do things. I was terrified that he’d make me kill someone, and I thought he did that time.” 

Stiles’ mouth was trembling, and he was breathing too quickly, heart beating fast. His hands raised up in front of him, and they were shaking. 

Scott reached out, and put his hands on top of them, and unlike last time, Stiles didn’t shake him off. Scott continued, earnestly. “I know what it’s like to think someone else covered your hands in blood against your will. It wasn’t the same, but I do understand.” 

“Scott-” Stiles voice was shattered, and Scott felt a pang go through him, because he’d never meant for that to hurt Stiles. Moving his hands, Scott pulled Stiles close to him, and felt Stiles clutch back, like he had in the MRI room. His whole body was shivering, and his chest hitched a few times, so Scott just rubbed his back, and made those little shushing noises his mom always did. Stiles buried his face in Scott’s neck, and Scott hoped - _hoped to god_ \- that some of this was helping him. Scott clasped Stiles shirt, and took comfort in the beating heart against his chest, and the fact that Stiles was _alive_ , and he would be able to get better from this. They’d all lost too much from this, but Scott was so glad that Stiles was still here. If he’d lost him too… 

He pressed a kiss into Stiles’ hair, smelling the shampoo, and just the scent of _Stiles_ , that he’d been able to smell even before the werewolf senses. Then he smiled, remembering leaving the house. 

“That was from my mom. She said to give you a kiss.”

A little huff was all that earned him, but Scott felt for a moment that they could be alright. Stiles pulled back, and wiped at his face, before shaking his head. 

“You’re incorrigible, you know that.” He said. Scott smiled a little, and stepped back, letting Stiles have his space now. 

He slapped his hands against his thighs. “Okay, fine, sleepover it is.”

They padded upstairs, and Stiles got out the toothbrush in the cupboard that was Scott’s from a long past sleepover, before brushing his own teeth. He brushed long and thoroughly, almost closing his eyes as he did so. Scott eyed him curiously in the mirror, and Stiles made a face before spitting. 

“I haven’t brushed in like a week man. I’m probably gonna have cavities.”

Grimacing, Scott wiped his lip. “That sucks, dude.” 

There was a weird feeling, talking about it all like that, but Scott followed Stiles lead. Now that he’d got his way for staying over, he was more than willing to joke around if it made Stiles feel more normal. 

They detoured to Stiles’ bedroom for clothes, and blankets, and Scott realized why Stiles didn’t want to sleep in here. The walls were still covered in pictures, files, and scrawled notes, all criss-crossed by red yarn. Barrow’s face was up there, scowling, as were various murder victims. It was crazy looking, like it had been on the night that Stiles went missing. 

Stiles saw him looking, and bit his lip, keeping his own eyes on the ground. He rummaged in the drawers, and found a pair of sweats for Scott, which he tossed over. Stiles was already wearing his pyjamas, so he grabbed the bedclothes and pillows, and dragged it out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Scott glanced at him. “I can see why you don’t want to sleep in there.” 

Stiles nodded, and jerked one shoulder to his ear. “I gotta get it all down. I just-” He fell silent, and started dragging his arm load to the stairwell. Scott went to the cupboard in the hall, where he knew the Stilinski’s kept a sleeping bag, and grabbed that for himself. He’d let Stiles have the couch. 

Later, when they got all settled in, and the room was dark, Stiles spoke. Scott had been closing his eyes, but he opened them again, looking at the silhouette of Stiles on the couch. 

“What’d you say?” He asked softly. He heard Stiles breathe out slowly, and shift around. 

“I said...what if I’m not even me?” He confessed. “I mean, you saw it. I came out of the floor. I remember waking up in those bandages, what if- what if it’s all a trick? What if I’m not real?” He sounded terrified, dazed, and Scott’s heart both broke and strengthened that Stiles had to wait until darkness to voice this, and glad that he’d stayed. 

“Stiles. You’re you. I can smell it. I can hear your heartbeat. You’re real, and human, nothing else.” Scott was firm, but he didn’t really know what to say. “I mean, the nogitsune is gone. We trapped in that box, and he’s never getting out.” 

Stiles flinched, pressing his face into his pillow. “What if we’re wrong, though?”

Scott worriedly stared at the couch. “We’re _not_. And, even if we are, we’ll handle it. Together, we can handle anything.”

“Can we?” Stiles’ voice was small, and not really a question. He didn’t speak anymore, and Scott looked at him for a long moment, before laying his head down too. In the darkness, it was easy to get lost in fears and regrets, and Scott hoped things would look better in the morning for both of them. But, he didn’t fall asleep for a long time, and from the light breathing, he didn’t think Stiles did either.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sheriff appropriates evidence at the station, Stiles has a bad night, and Isaac has a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And some plot happens...

The Sheriff had gone back to work, ostensibly to stay for only a short time, just to check up on the station. It was Stiles who actually convinced him to go, saying that since he was the only one that actually knew what had happened, he had to be there. John thought that Stiles also wanted him out of the house for a little while, and though John wasn’t sure Stiles should be alone, he’d gone to avoid an argument. There was already tension building between them. 

John had brought back some soft foods, remembering the struggle after Claudia had died to get Stiles to eat much. The kid had had a sensitive stomach anyways, and the stress of his mother slowly dying had pushed him over the edge of reluctant to eat to full out refusing, and throwing up whatever he did manage. It had looked like that was back again, as John had heard the retching from the bathroom before he left for the store. 

But Stiles was almost grown now, and John wasn’t going to be able to force or bribe the food into him. He brought back stuff, and just prayed Stiles would have the common sense to try. He was already suffering from weight loss over the past month and a half, and Stiles had always been skinny. 

He’d managed the pudding, and a banana, and John had left satisfied with that. 

At the station, the panic had died down. The building has been cleaned up, and Gutierrez had been taken care of respectfully. John felt a flash of guilt that he wasn’t the one that had informed the family, but with the attack on the hospital, not to mention the more private matter of his son escaping possession from a Japanese trickster spirit, he’d had so much going on. The officers who’d been off duty last night, or out on the road were working, were now manning the phones, and filling in paperwork that had been piling up through the past day. The Sheriff knew they were processing the information from the hospital attack, and trying to put together the pieces of all these crazy events. John _wished_ he could give them what they were missing, if only for their peace of mind. 

Then, he snorted. Peace of mind? Telling them about the supernatural would most definitely _not_ restore anyone’s peace of mind. 

The hospital had also been cleaned up and should be back up for normal business in a day or two. Volunteer workers from other counties had come in to cover the traumatized and wounded workers who were there that night, and the patients who’d been moved were trickling back in. 

The town was getting its feet back under them. It was time to make sure that his family could do the same without interruption. 

John rose from his desk, glancing at the clock, and realizing he’d already been there longer than he meant to. There was still something to do, though. Pushing down a flash of worry about Stiles home alone, he walked casually towards the back of the station. 

Glancing around, and seeing that no one had followed him, John unlocked the door, and stepped into the evidence locker. Carefully labeled and categorized in here was all the evidence from the hospital attack, and bombings, and potentially, anything that would incriminate his son as a murderer. John was doubly glad that Scott had destroyed the video tapes, but the fact that it was in front of Agent McCall, their resident FBI agent, was very concerning. 

Ah, well. John resolved to talk to both him and Scott, and hope that some kind of explanation would be given, but there was nothing to do about it now. Focus, Stilinski. 

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, John started combing through the past few cases: the hospital, the attack(s) on the station, including that bomb, the near bombing at the school, all the way back to the lockdown with Barrow. Barrow himself was still loose so far as they knew. There was the picture of the chemistry classroom chalkboard, with what he knew was Stiles’ handwriting scrawling the code to Barrow. There was a set of fingerprints from the present bomb that didn’t blow up on the school bus, ones that didn’t match Barrow’s but hadn’t yet been run against the whole database. John knew that Stiles fingerprints were in the system- he’d been about six, and waiting at the station, and Tara had entertained him by taking his prints- so he’d have to prevent the analysis. The present bomb itself was still there, and there were a stack of witness reports he’d have to read through. 

John slipped the finger print slips into his pocket, and wiped down the outside of the present bomb with a wipe. Then he sat with the reports, reading through account after horrible account of the attack on the hospital. He searched for any mention of a boy following the oni, and found a couple that mentioned a figure. No one identified him by name, thank god, but he took them anyway, in case someone called to follow up. Now, he just had to pray that no one would look at Stiles on the street, and remember the face of the nogitsune. He decided that the MRI (which he’d already scheduled at Sacramento General Hospital because of the attack) and all the rest of his appointments would _not_ be at Beacon Hills General, just in case some of the workers recognized him.

Standing up, the Sheriff fought down the sick feeling in his gut at what he was doing. This didn’t just threaten his job, this threatened his liberty. But, this was what he was willing to do for his son. If his going to jail for obstruction of an investigation would prevent Stiles for being arrested and tried for first degree mass murder, then he’d do it in a heartbeat. John had to push down a roll of nausea at the thought, imagining his son, his baby boy, being tried as an adult (as a seventeen year old, he would be with such a violent crime), sentenced to life incarceration with no parole (if he were just a year older, he’d probably get the death penalty). 

He would not let that happen. 

John left the locker with his coat tight around him, and sweat clinging to his back, underarms, and upper lip, but trying to move normally. He started to clean up around his desk, preparing to go home, before Parrish came and stood nervously in his doorway. John looked up, hiding a flash of alarm with annoyance. 

“Parrish, you’re supposed to be home.” 

There was a moment of amusement on his face, and John guessed he wasn’t here to bust him. 

“So are you, sir.” Parrish said, and John quirked a smile. 

“True.” He brushed the last few papers on his desk into a pile, and turned to Parrish. “What can I do for you, son?”

Parrish glanced behind him, and then came fully into the office, shutting the door behind him. He looked nervous, but determined, liking his lips. 

“Sheriff. There’s something going on, and you know what it is. It’s something weirder than just crazy masked men with swords, and I want to know what it is.” 

John blinked, and then thought he shouldn’t be surprised. Deputy Parrish had come with great credentials, and obviously had a sharp mind or he wouldn’t have made it so far, so young. But, he knew from experience how hard it was to put together the pieces without that critical awareness of another world, and he didn’t know if he could shatter someone’s worldview the way that Stiles had for him. Parrish would just have to continue being confused. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, deputy.” John said tiredly, putting his hands in his coat pockets. He brushed by the man, and went to open the door. Then, Parrish spoke again, and he froze. 

“It has something to do with Stiles, doesn’t it?” 

John slowly turned around, trying to tamp down the rage and protectiveness. 

“I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John said, voice slow and dark. “Good night.” 

John walked out of the room, stolen evidence under his coat, and a need to see Stiles and protect him. Parrish stood there as he went, anger on his face. 

By the time John got home, he’s cooled off a little, but he didn’t regret what he’d said. After the way Parrish had used Stiles to get the truth, sounding almost threatening, John didn’t think he wanted Parrish to ever know what was really going on. He felt unsettled enough to _need_ to check on Stiles. 

The house was dark, and quiet, and John went up the stairs first thing, straight to Stiles’ bedroom. It was dark and empty, and John tried not to panic. Stiles bedding was gone and he hadn’t missed how earlier Stiles had avoided the room, and the coverings on the walls. He’d spent the afternoon on the couch downstairs. He must be there now. 

Sure enough, he was. Scott was too, both of them crashed out, with the gaming system still spread across the floor, and plates of food empty nearby (which meant Scott either finished dinner for Stiles, or Stiles had actually eaten something substantial, for which John nearly crowed in joy). Stiles was curled up on the couch under all his bedclothes, twitching a little, not quite as deep asleep as he’d like. Scott was spread out and snoring in a sleeping bag on the floor. 

Smiling, John moved away, resisting the urge to kiss his son’s forehead, or run his fingers through his hair. He was starving suddenly, and whatever was on the plates on the floor looked pretty good. He hoped there were leftovers.

“Yes!” He whispered, opening the fridge. There was a tinfoil covered pan that didn’t belong to him, with a sticky note reading ‘enchiladas’ in Melissa’s handwriting. Gold. 

He pulled it out, and quietly made himself up a plate in the light of the fridge door, preparing that and a glass of milk to take up to his room to eat. The nice thing about enchiladas was that they were just as good cold, so he didn’t need to turn on the noisy microwave. He was just about to carry it all upstairs, when a stifled gasp reached his ears from over the back of the couch. It was only seconds, where John put his plate down and looked over, before Stiles screamed. 

Muscle memory had him moving immediately, running across the kitchen and into the living room, getting behind his thrashing son on the couch. Stiles screamed, and screamed again, sobbing harshing on the intake. Scott was flailing on the floor, waking up abrubtly and probably ready to fight something, but there wasn’t anything here but whatever was plaguing Stiles’ mind. 

“Stiles!” Scott yelped, but John was whispering already. 

“Shh, sh, son, it’s okay, you’re safe, you safe…” 

Stiles’ screams finally slowed, turning into wild noises of fear and pain, until he was crying and whimpering, not awake enough to be embarrassed. John stroked his hair, and hugged his chest, while Stiles panted and caught his breath. 

John then pressed his nose into his son’s neck, and wished he could give him some comfort, because he didn’t think either of them would be getting back to sleep for a long time. 

 

*****

 

Wednesday dawned. It had been two days since Allison died. Two days since they’d won, and Isaac hadn’t been back to the McCall’s since. Not that he was entirely comfortable at Mr. Argent’s far too empty apartment, sleeping on the couch, and generally making a nuisance of himself as Chris made phone call after phone call. But it was better than being around Scott. 

Not that he felt good about it, but he was definitely angry at Scott. He let it in, didn’t even try to stop it, since it felt slightly better than mourning Allison-or being angry at _her_. She’d died in Scott’s arms, talking to _Scott_ , telling Scott she _loved_ him. He should have known better, that he was secondary. After Scott McCall, who wouldn’t be? He admitted it, and understood far too well, but it still hurt. And he’d choose hurt feelings over realizing that he’d never see her again. Any day. 

So, Isaac hung around Chris, and scrounged for food, and tried not to cry anymore than he had, as Chris spent Tuesday evening making _arrangements_. It made him glad that he’d been too young for his mom, and not around after his dad, because having to pick out a picture to send to the mortuary so that they could make her up to look alive again sounded like an exquisite kind of torture. Isaac had made himself scarce for that, riding the elevator up to the roof, and sitting in the sun up there, glaring at it’s brightness, and the rest of the town who weren’t mourning her. 

Now, this morning, laying on the couch, Isaac could hear Chris still talking. French, it sounded like, and his voice was choked and solemn. He must have moved on to informing family sometime in the night, and Isaac knew that Allison had a lot of family in france. He wondered if they were going to fly out for the funeral.

Sighing, Isaac stretched out, and decided to go to school. There was no reason not to. 

It was quiet at school, and Isaac was glad for the air of somberness. The word had gotten out, it appeared, and Allison had a memorial on her locker like Erika and Boyd had. Isaac looked at the notes, and pictures people had found, and _ached_ for a long moment. He didn’t know the names of the people-none of the pack had written anything yet, but she’d been well liked. Lydia Martin’s best friend, Scott McCall’s ex, _who’s that tall kid following after her? Oh that’s Isaac Lahey, arrested for killing his father last year, but I guess he didn’t do it. Huh, I wonder what she sees in him?_

Isaac closed his eyes, and moved away from the locker. Went to class. No one expected him to talk. 

At lunch, he met up with Lydia, and Kira in the cafeteria. They’d been the only ones in any of his classes through the morning. He guessed Scott was with Stiles, and Stiles was probably in no condition to come to school. 

“Hey,” He greeted, sitting down by Lydia with his tray. She and Kira both smiled slightly in greeting. Lydia looked mostly like her usual self, but Isaac could see the cracks around the edges: the smeared make up under her eyes, and the re-applied eyeliner. It was a little uneven. She smelled like tears, and pain. Kira just looked awkward. She hadn’t really known her, he supposed, and Kira was kind of awkward in general. 

“Hi, Isaac.” Lydia said, picking at her own food. She’d brought a healthy looking wrap, and hadn’t taken a bite out of it. Isaac scooped up a spoonful of the mystery mash on his tray, and chewed it, grateful werewolfiness protected him from food poisoning. 

So this was the pack, what was left of it anyway. A banshee who’d probably cried all through first period. A kitsune whose mother started everything seventy years ago, and a werewolf who felt no ties to either of them. Or anyone, anymore. 

The three of them ate in silence, until Isaac scented Scott coming. He turned to see Scott coming in through the doors, looking exhausted and smelling like Stiles and grief (though, they all smelled like that last one). He beelined for his pack, and took a seat next to Kira, not bothering with food. 

“Hey, guys.” He said, looking at eat of them in turn. He didn’t reach to take Kira’s hand, and Kira chewed her lip, keeping her distance. Lydia smiled at him a little, and Isaac put down his spoon. 

“How’s Stiles?” Isaac asked, figuring the others wanted to know, and they couldn’t smell him on their alpha like he could. Scott blinked, and then his face shuttered in worry. 

“He’s alright, as much as he can be, I guess. I stayed the night cause his dad was at work. It was a little rough.”

Lydia looked sick, hanging on Scott’s words. “What happened?”

Scott shrugged one shoulder. “Just...nightmares, I guess. Bad though.”

Kira was frowning, face guilty and pale. “Will he be alright? I mean, I did stab him with a sword. The other him, anyway…” Her voice was small, but everyone still winced at the mention of ‘the other Stiles’. Kira’s eyes widened. “Oh god! I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry!” 

No one said anything, so Isaac ended up murmuring. “It’s okay.” Kira looked doubtful and quietly miserable, and she stayed quiet after that. Isaac looked around at their table, and then towards the rest of the cafeteria. There was a wide berth between their table, and the next one, and Isaac could hear hushed conversations (ones that without wolf-hearing, he never would have noticed) about Allison, and their group and speculation on what happened. They were, of course, dead wrong. Isaac sent the closest group a glare, knowing none of the pack wanted the eyes on them right now. 

The teachers knew too. Isaac guessed there had been some sort of phone tree because every teacher looked at them with those big sympathetic eyes. It almost made him miss Harris, just for some normalcy, since he definitely wouldn’t have watched him and Lydia like they were about to break. 

Speaking of teachers…

“McCall, Lahey!” It was the coach, speaking in a softer version of his normal bark (but still warranting exclamation points, he thought). He came over, and stood at the end of their table a little awkwardly, gripping his hands together. 

“Hi, Coach.” McCall said, looking up with his big brown eyes. 

“Hey, guys.” He said, and then chewed his lip, looking at each of them. “Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss. McCall, I can’t imagine losing a girlfriend like that-”

Scott had made a startled noise. “Coach, she wasn’t- we weren’t together anymore.” 

Isaac winced at this topic. Coach frowned in confusion. 

“You weren’t?”

“No, not since last school year.” Scott said, looking pained. Isaac wanted to speak up, say ‘she was with me’ proudly and firmly, but...was that even true? He didn’t even get a chance to try. 

The coach was looking mystified. “You really weren’t together all this time? She was still a part of your little group.” 

“We were friends.” 

Coach pondered this, and then clapped Scott on the shoulder. 

“Well, good for you for being mature about it. I- I mean, sorry again, for your loss. All of you.” 

Lydia, looking close to tears, smiled at the coach. Isaac nodded, staring at his food. Kira just stayed silent. Coach let out a breath, and then slapped Isaac on the back. “Well, I guess that makes this less awkward. Sorry about your girlfriend, Lahey!”

There was a long silence, while Isaac tried to figure out what to say. Scott looked stricken, and the others were just watching in horror- kind of like a train wreck. Well, guess that was coach for you. 

“Uh, thanks, Coach…” He murmured. 

Coach waffled a little bit, and then asked the question that Isaac had been dreading anyone asking. 

“So, when’s the funeral?”

The others didn’t know, and Isaac could see Scott start to beat himself up internally. He was probably thinking that since he’d been so focused on Stiles the past day, that he was dishonoring Allison’s memory. Actually, Isaac was sure that she’d want Scott taking care of his friend, but Scott’s guilt habit knew no bounds. Lydia looked guilty too, for not having an answer. 

Isaac spoke up before his friends could bury themselves any deeper in their feelings. 

“Saturday. The viewing is at 11:00, at the french protestant church on Main street, with the funeral there right after. The burial is at 3:00 at the graveyard where her mother and aunt are buried.” 

Everyone was staring at him, but Coach nodded. 

“I’ll spread the word.” He started moving away. “Really, I’m sorry for your loss, and…” He glanced around. “I’m glad that whatever was going on with Stilinski and that insane girl, and whatever the hell else you guys get up to, that you’re all alright. You are all alright, right?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

They echoed that, and the coach finally moved on to terrorize another table. As soon as he was out of hearing, Scott leaned in. 

“You’ve been at Mr. Argent’s, right? Is he okay? Are you okay?” Ah, here was the result of Scott’s guilt. His laserbeam of focus and concern got pointed straight at you. Any other time, he’d like it. He had enough to being ignored to last a lifetime, and Scott’s regard was like a sunbeam. But, he _wanted_ to hide in the dark. Allison was gone, and Scott had taken her last moment, and he just felt...alone. 

“Fine.” Isaac said, then realized that didn’t really answer Scott’s question. “Both of us, I mean. We’re both fine. Thank your mother for the food.” 

Isaac decided that his lunch was completely unappetizing, and the conversation more so. Abruptly, he stood, and shouldered his backpack. 

“See you all later.” And Isaac strode away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Lydia finish school, and find that Agent McCall is looking for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, double shifts at work suck...

Scott watched Isaac walk away, smelling of anger, and felt the guilt rise up in his throat. He was mad, had a right to be, really. Scott wished he could do something, but he couldn’t change what All- she’d said. He couldn’t make up for being with her in her last moment, while Isaac listened. Scott still loved her. She still loved him, but he knew that they wouldn’t be together again. He wanted to explain to Isaac that she loved him too, and wanted to be with him, but he was afraid that something had broken between them that night. Selfishly, he didn’t want to give Isaac any further cause to hate him. He missed his beta, and having him avoiding him, and angry was like another wound in his heart. 

Sighing, Scott put his head into his hands. It seemed that he was doing everything wrong today. Stiles had kicked him out that morning, frustrated and snapping when he offered to stay with him while his dad was at work. After being woken all night with Stiles’ nightmares, Scott didn’t have the emotional stamina to fight to stay, and had taken off across the preserve. 

Running had done him good, and he popped back home to take a shower and change before coming to school in time for lunch. Now he was back where he started, nauseas with guilt and pain. 

Someone put a hand on his hair, and he jerked up to see Lydia. She looked so worn, so anguished, but she still smiled sadly for him. She stroked her fingers down his hair, before pulling away. 

Scott felt warmth for her swell up in his heart, but it only compounded the pain of the people who were missing. 

“We’re broken without her. Without them.” Scott said, thinking of Allison, Stiles, Isaac...he wasn’t sure anymore. Lydia’s eyes filled with tears, and she nodded. 

“I know.” 

He wanted her to say, _but we’ll get through it_ , but she didn’t. Just let tears softly trail down her cheeks. Lydia had lost her best friend. She’d known Allison for longer than he had, and she had to be hurting just as much as he was. Scott reached out, and put her hand around hers, squeezing. 

_I’m here, I’m here._

She squeezed back. 

School was a waste of time, and the teachers knew it. No one called on him, and everyone avoided speaking to him, or Lydia. Isaac had vanished. Kira had left after lunch, and now seemed to be avoiding them both. Scott spent the last three periods staring off into space, and was deeply startled when the bell rang. 

Mr. Yukimura looked at him sympathetically while he packed up the school supplies he hadn’t used, and the books he hadn’t read. 

Lydia found him in the hallway, and followed him to the parking lot. She hadn’t said much, but Scott was grateful for her presence. Scott moved to take his helmet, and get on the bike, but Lydia then spoke. 

“Scott? You were with Stiles last night, right? How was he?” She was tangling her fingers together, rubbing them back and forth. Scott put his helmet against his hip, and stared downwards. 

“I don’t know. Not really. He lies, and says he fine, but I _know_ he’s not, but I don’t...know how _not_ fine he is. If that makes sense?”

Lydia nodded, pushing her thumbs together. “I was with him until Tuesday afternoon. He slept a lot of it, but when he woke he was… almost manic. One minute he was joking around, the next he was panicking.”

Scott winced, but nodded. “I stayed over last night, and it was kinda the same thing. I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know if I can.” Scott was whispering at that point, and Lydia came closer, finally loosening her hand’s grip on each other. She put her arms around him.

“Me either.” She murmured, her voice sounding thick in his jacket. “I don’t know if I have the strength.” 

Feeling tears heat his eyes again, Scott hugged her closer, stroking her hair. He knew. There was a hole in his chest, ragged edged and pulsing with poison. He wanted Allison back. He wanted to kill something, _literally_. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. He wanted his pack all back, so he could take care of them, but they were all hurting too. They were turning away from him to deal with their own pain, which only hurt Scott all the more. 

Could any of them get better from this?

Scott swallowed, and looked at Lydia, the only one who hadn’t pushed him away. She wasn’t crying, but she hugged him desperately, hiding her face in his shoulder. Scott felt a surge of protectiveness, of love for her. Not in a romantic way, but as an alpha to a member of his pack. 

Gusting out a breath from his nose, Scott straightened up. He’d help her. He’d help them all. But he knew that he couldn’t, shouldn’t do it alone. He needed them all to come together.

“Lydia,” Scott started, and she drew back enough to look at him. “We can get through this. We all will, okay? We just have to...stick together.”

“Be a pack.” Lydia finished, looking more determined. 

Scott nodded. “ _All_ of us.” Lightly, he kissed her forehead, and then let her pull back. He put his hands on the bike handles, and then looked around the parking lot. 

“Is your car still with the police?” He asked, and Lydia rolled her eyes. It took effort, but her voice sounded normal when she spoke. 

“Why do you think I was following you out here?” 

Scott smiled a little, and handed her the extra helmet. She took it, shaking out her hair, before putting it on and climbing behind him. 

They drove off. Lydia had shaken her head when Scott asked if she wanted to go home, so he took the long route to his house, wandering around the streets of Beacon Hills, and wondering at how his life had changed. A year ago, he was a lonely asthmatic teenager with nothing bigger to worry about besides grades, and if he’d make the lacrosse team. Now...he felt so old. 

The streets of Beacon Hills were lit with the November sun, and the wind was chilly as they drove. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t let the tears fall. He just watched the houses pass by.   
_How many of those houses hid a mourning family, because he hadn’t protected his pack?_

So many people had died.

Lydia was warm against his back, but the air was cool. Months had passed by without him noticing. Didn’t school just start again? Didn’t Stiles just call to have him come help prank the coach? He’d been so caught up in everything that he hadn’t even noticed. 

Growling softly to himself, Scott turned towards his house.

_Get your head together, Scott._

He knew he shouldn’t dwell on all this. He should pay attention to now; he should get Lydia warm and safe, help his pack. Scott turned down his street, and came up to his house. 

Then he growled again. 

Lydia leaned over as they stopped, and looked for what had upset Scott, but Scott was focused on the discrete black car parked in the driveway, FBI issue obviously, and the figure leaning against it. His dad. 

Honestly, could there be a worse time for him to be in town, nosing into all their businesses? He’d been hanging around through all of this, gathering questions and getting in the way, while Scott and the others tried to save their friends. And every time he’s tried to talk to Scott, asking intrusive questions and begging forgiveness for the wrong things, Scott has literally been trying to save lives in that very second. And now, after seeing Scott destroy evidences, and be involved in every crime scene, Agent McCall wasn’t going to give up. 

Stopping the bike fully, Scott yanked off his helmet, and resisted just driving away again. Or running. Lydia was behind him, and cold, and he couldn’t leave her. Agent McCall pushed himself off his car as Scott got off his bike, coming forward quickly, like he was afraid Scott would vanish if he didn’t catch him. Well, with how Scott had been acting, he wasn’t blaming him. He had _literally_ gone through a window to avoid him yesterday. 

“Scott, we need to talk.”

Scott helped Lydia off the bike, ignoring his father for as long as possible. Lydia was glancing between them, annoyance on her face. It was better than grief, he thought. 

“Scott, you need to talk to him. He’s going to get fed up, and start arresting people, probably starting with you or Stiles.” She hissed in his ear. Scott felt an edge of frantic panic, knowing that she was saying the truth, but still unable to get through the rage that rose up whenever he looked at him. 

“What in the hell do I tell him?” He whispered back, anger coloring his voice. “He won’t believe the truth.” And, honestly, Scott didn’t want to tell him the truth. He didn’t deserve to know. 

“I don’t know, but you have to take care of it soon.” Lydia poked him in the chest, and then walked off towards the house, throwing a wide smile at McCall as she passed, before disappearing into the house. Scott was left alone with his dad. His increasingly frustrated father, who waved his arm and launched into it. 

“Scott, I left you alone after the other night. I did what your mother asked, but I can’t ignore you destroying evidence! Unlike the Sheriff, who apparently can!”

“Dad-”

“Scott, what in the hell is going on in this town? And you’re right in the middle of it! I mean, the only thing I can come up with is drugs, and even that doesn’t seem to fit!”

Scott gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists, but he kept quiet. His dad was standing between his house, between Lydia and his mom, and him, and Scott felt himself growing antsy. Drugs were insulting, but not the worst cover story. Scott moved, and ran with it. 

“You caught me. Drugs. I’ll totally stop, don’t worry.” Scott sidestepped, and got around his dad, but McCall was faster than he expected. 

“Scott! If it is drugs, then you’re in deep! Something scary is going on, and I can help.” McCall looked scared, angry and dripped with the smell of stress. Scott felt a moment of pity, before his constant annoyance came back to the forefront. 

“I don’t need your help.” Scott ground out, keeping his eyes from flashing red with an effort. “You never wanted to help before, so why would you now?” 

Pain flashed behind his dad’s eyes. Scott knew his reasoning about why he’d left, he knew about the crippling self-worth issues that made an accident his fault, and the addiction that colored every aspect of his life; he understood all the things that his dad used as an excuse to drop out of Scott’s life. But, he was his son. Scott had needed him, and his dad left both him and his mom. And Scott just couldn’t let him back in. 

“Scott, if you don’t give me _something_ , then I’m going to have to take other steps to find out the truth. It’s a misdemeanor, what you did. I could bring you in right now.” 

Scott didn’t give him a chance to move forward, even though his voice seemed less threatening and more begging. He twisted around him, and ran into the house, passing Lydia and his mom in the kitchen. He burst into his room, and slammed the door. He flipped on whatever was playing on the stereo, and then slipped out the window, banging that shut behind him as well. The woods were the only place he wanted to be right now. 

*****

Rafael came storming in after Scott, and Melissa knew that _that_ hadn’t gone well. Ah, well, Scott didn’t get his stubbornness from her...much anyway. Her ex’s face looked stormy, but she could tell he was hurting as well. Lydia was looking between the two of them, discomfort on her face. She was still a teenager, after all, and for all their life or death adventures, there was still something unsettling about an angry adult when you’re that age. 

Melissa put her hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Honey, I’ll take you for that ride home in just a minute, okay?” 

Lydia brightened her face, hiding any real emotions, and nodded pertly, before walking off to the living room. 

Melissa sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. She was still off work on account of trauma and such, but she wished he had the excuse of running late to the hospital to get out of this. She didn’t know what Scott had told him, but she was guessing it wasn’t much. But there was only so long that Rafe would take being lied to and evaded before he’d take drastic measures. 

“Melissa, your son-”

Melissa interrupted him. 

“Uh uh. Scott’s a big boy, and he’s definitely your son too, buster.” 

Cutting off Rafael's tirade had been a good choice, because Rafael just deflated, rubbing his hands along his head and making his neatly done hair stick up. 

“Mel, what are you letting that boy do?” He asked, and Melissa frowned. “He’s obviously in trouble, something really serious.”

“He can handle it.” Melissa said, folding her arms. Rafael gaped at her. 

“Handle it? You call destroying evidence, and running away from me every time I try to get an answer handling it?” Rafael waved his hand around, his voice rising. “If he weren’t my son, I would have arrested him already for obstruction of an investigation of a violent crime! I should have his ass in jail for six months! My job is on the line, if I don’t follow this through, but you and Scott promised me an explanation. So, I waited. But, I don’t think I can anymore, Mel.”

Melissa felt sick. 

“You’re right.” She said, letting her arms fall. “We promised you an explanation. I just really think Scott should be here for this. I can’t tell it without him. You won’t believe it.” Melissa put her hands out. “Please, wait for Scott. I’ll talk to him. Please, Rafe.”

Blowing out a sigh, Rafael rubbed his eyes again. He was still angry, and confused, but he loved Scott, and he was folding. 

“He’s still here, right? Let’s do this then.”

Melissa nodded, and they went together up the stairs. Scott’s room door was shut, with loud music pulsing through the wood. Melissa knocked, and called out. 

“Scott, honey. We need to talk to you!” 

When no one answered, Melissa tried the door knob, and it opened. She pushed it open, and then sighed in exasperation. The room was empty, with a closed window, but Melissa knew that’s where he’d gone. 

“Dammit!” Rafael shouted, and punched into the wall. The plaster didn’t crack, but Melissa (used to a household with two supernaturally strong teenage boys) flinched in anticipation of a hole through the wall. Then she puffed out air through her nose, and rubbed the bridge of it. 

“I’m going to go find him.” Rafael said. “He can’t have gone far, I never heard his stupid bike outside.” Little did he know that Scott could run further than any mere human in half the time. Rafael surged down the stairs, and didn’t hear Melissa roll her eyes and wish him luck.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles needs a distraction.

Stiles needed a distraction. Desperately. After a morning of moping around, trying to doze and then waking with little jolts every five minutes, fighting with Scott and ignoring his dad’s attempts to get him to eat something or sleep, he was done. His dad left for work with big worried eyes, and Stiles snapped, kicking Scott out and then laying face down on his couch, with Avengers playing loudly in the background. After a while, the explosions made him jump, and his heart pound, so he switched it to Finding Nemo, which made him think of his dad, and then from that to Emperor's New Groove. That worked for a while, and quoting every line made him even smile a little. 

“What are the odds that trap door leads out here.” Stiles muttered along with Kronk, quirking a smile. He was laid out along the couch, in his pyjamas still, when the doorbell rang. Stiles froze, while the movie kept playing. Could he get away with just ignoring it? No one was technically supposed to be home, after all. It was a school day, and his dad was at work. Then again, anyone could see his jeep in the driveway. 

It was probably someone who knew he was here, knew what had happened. One of the pack. Hey, he’d wanted a distraction. But, they’d ask him how he was doing and give him those wobbly anime eyes when he lied and said he was fine. No thanks!

Rubbing his head, Stiles settled back down, determined to ignore whoever it was for as long as possible. If it was one of the werewolves, they could just come in the window anyway, and the others would probably call him when he didn’t get the door. Stiles sent a preemptive betrayed glance at his phone on the side table. 

Then the bell rang again. 

“Argh.” Stiles moved backwards into the couch. “No visitors.” But the stubborn bell ringer didn’t go away, just buzzing one more time, before calling out. 

“Stiles, I know you’re in there!” It was Scott’s dad, yelling through the door, and he sounded pissed. “If Scott is with you, can you _please_ tell him I need to talk to him?” 

Frowning, Stiles rose and walked over to the front door. Through the wavy glass, he could see Agent McCall shifting back and forth, and generally looking annoyed. Working his mouth, Stiles debated ignoring him further. He could just turn around and walk back to the couch. Then, Agent McCall called out again. 

“Stiles! I can see you through the glass.” 

“Dammit,” Stiles muttered, and finally stepped up to the door, and undid the bolt, tugging open the door. He pulled on a bright face, and leaned on the doorframe casually. 

“Oh, hey Mr. McCall! Fancy seeing you here!” 

Agent McCall didn’t look amused. 

“Stiles, is Scott here?” He looked frazzled, in his ever present suit. Do FBI agents just wear suits all the time? He would have thought that that would be so uncomfortable. Then again, Stiles bet that the pay for FBI-ing was enough to cover better suits than the ones you could get at Walmart. Maybe they were more comfortable.   
Remembering the question, Stiles shrugged elaborately, examining his nails. Gah, his nails were chipped and bloody with bitten cuticles. Yikes. 

“Scott? No, I haven’t seen him.” He hadn’t, not since this morning anyway, when he kicked him out (he pushed down a surge of guilt for that, since he was rather mean) but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t mess with Mr. McCall a little. Mr. McCall looked dramatically at the sky, sighing heavily. 

“Please tell him to get out here.” Stiles didn’t know what Scott had done to piss his dad off, but it must have been a doozy. Hiding a smile (this was the most fun he’d had in...well, a long time) he spread his hands. 

“Honestly, he’s not here. Promise.” 

“You’re lying.” Mr. McCall said, and Stiles snorted. 

“Wow, you’re really good at that. They must call you the human polygraph.” An unamused look was sent his way, and Stiles stepped back. “Really, do you want to look around? He’s not here.” 

Deflating, Mr. McCall put his fingers to his forehead, massaging what must be a headache of epic proportions, judging by the pressure he was exerting. Then, he blinked, and seemed to really look at Stiles for the first time. His face morphed from annoyance to concern, and Stiles felt himself start to bristle. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, sounding a lot like Scott for a second. Stiles’ face hardened, and he nodded. 

“I’m absolutely fine. Thanks for asking. Anything else besides accusing me of lying?”

McCall sighed, and put his hands on his hips. “Scott’s really not here?” 

“No. I haven’t seen him since this morning.” 

“Fine. If you do see him, will you tell him I’m looking for him?” McCall didn’t wait for an answer, and started to turn, only to look back. “Any chance _you’ll_ tell me what’s going on? You know too, don’t you?” 

Stiles stayed silent, lips pressed together, and McCall’s anger flared up again. He channeled it into walking quickly back to his car. 

He waited until McCall’s car vanished down the street, before turning and shutting the door, and leaning against it. The back and forth of his emotions was something he really needed to get a handle on. He pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart was pounding in a come down from the surge of rage he’d felt. Agent McCall wasn’t his favorite person, but he’d honestly wanted to hurt him for a second. The thought terrified him. 

Running shaking hands through his hair, Stiles blew out and then pulled in a couple breaths in a row, trying to stave off a panic attack. 

_Oh, boy._

It seemed to work... ish. But the house was claustrophobia central all of sudden, and Stiles really really needed to see the sun. It seemed like he hadn’t for weeks. _Were evil foxes nocturnal?_

Jogging through the house, Stiles stepped into his bedroom, again ignoring the walls as best as he could, and grabbing clean clothes. He was out of here. 

 

The world outside went on as normal. Mostly. There were memorial balloons and flowers outside the hospital, and the whole town was flying their flags half mast, since a deputy died. Stiles drove around all of Beacon Hills, with loud techno blaring to drown out any thoughts he might have. He passed by his friends’ houses: Scott’s and Lydia’s, Derek’s loft, the Argent’s apartment building, driving slow but not stopping. He couldn’t stop. Stopping would mean taking in the details of the town sans Allison, Aiden, and Gutierrez. Without the fifteen people who’d died in the hospital massacre, and the four police officers who’d died in the bombing. A town full of families who were mourning. Twenty four people wounded. A lacrosse coach who was sporting a new scar in his chest. A werewolf who should have had one through his middle. 

All of that was his fault. 

Stiles wiped away tears as they started to fall, still driving steadily, as if if he sped up, or slowed down, then the darkness would catch him, until finally he couldn’t see anymore. Not wanting to add crashing into someone to his long list of things to feel guilty as hell about, Stiles pulled over and breathed. Sobs broke through a few times, and tears continued to drip down his cheeks, but he tried to gain control. It seemed his whole life lately had been trying to gain control of himself. 

_Well, that certainly didn’t help with the crying._

He cried, of fear, of pain, of guilt. Pressing his face into his hands, he sobbed in earnest now. Stiles head pounded, and snot dripped, and he made horrible noises, crying in his car like people did in those ridiculous movies. 

And of course, someone always tapped on the windows in those movies too. Stiles flailed at the sudden noise, and looked through watery eyes at the figure outside his window. Unlike the movies, the uniform clad knocker was not a pretty love interest, but none other than Deputy Parrish. Stiles rolled down the window, wiping at his face, and laughed internally as soon as Parrish’s face came into view. He could take back the part about Parrish not being pretty. 

Stiles sniffed, and tried to wipe the evidence of tears off his face, as if Parrish didn’t already know. Ah, well. At least it wasn’t raining. That was just too cliché. 

“Hi, Deputy Parrish.” He said, clearing his throat of emotional gunk. He wished it was any of the other deputies (a jolt of pain when he remembered that there were so many that hadn’t made it through the year, and Stiles had to push back some more tears). He didn’t actually know Parrish all that well, and he definitely didn’t think he could explain anything of what had happened to the man. 

_Oh, you know. I just spent the last few weeks possessed by an ancient spirit, directly and indirectly causing the deaths of over twenty people, only to be puked out by myself and then watch what was maybe my original body turn to dust in front of me, after being bitten by my werewolf best friend, and I’m having a bit of a hard time dealing with all of that, thanks!_

Sighing, Stiles resisted the urge to either put his head in his hands, or throw himself off a cliff.   
Deputy Parrish was looking at him, concerned and proffesional at the same time. Skill. 

“Hey, Stiles. How are you doing?” He asked, and Stiles snorted. 

“You serious?” He wiped at his face a little more. “Been better, honestly.” 

“I can see that.” Parrish shifted a little, but never looking uncomfortable, like most people would when coming upon their boss’ son, sobbing in his car. Seriously, how was this man so well trained? Did nothing throw him? Maybe Stiles should open with his possession line next time, just to see how the ever-composed-man took it. “Do you want me to call your dad?”

Stiles pushed his hands against the steering wheel, working his mouth. The answer was yes and no, with simultaneous urges to bury his face in his dad’s chest, and cry out everything he’d just finished stuffing down again, and to run away from everyone who ever knew him, and not make anyone worry about him anymore.

“No, don’t call him.” Stiles said, voice thin. “I don’t want-”

Parrish finished, voice warm, soothing. “You don’t want to worry him?” Ugh, how did he do that? His customer service skills were off the charts, it was a little creepy. 

Stiles could only nod. 

Parrish tapped his fingers against the window frame of the jeep, thinking. 

“How about I follow you to the station? Then you can see him, but you don’t have to worry him? And you can take him to get dinner or something.” 

The station sounded nice actually. It was a refuge, a place he’d hang out as a child while his mom was at the hospital so much. Of course, people were missing, killed or moved away, but the feeling of safety was still there. He hoped. 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. “Okay, that sounds good.”

He drove carefully, with the Deputy’s cruiser trailing behind him. The station looked the same from the outside, which was great. The flag in front was half mast like the rest of the town, and Stiles tried not to look up to see it. 

Outside the building was a scattered crowd of people, and news vans. It wasn’t a completely uncommon sight outside the police station, but the timing seemed weird, a full two days after everything. 

Stiles frowned as he pulled to a stop in the visitor’s parking. Parrish stopped close by, even though he was in his cruiser, and got out, looking mildly perturbed. _Which I guess for him is freaking pissed._

Parrish came over to him, putting one of those protective arms around behind his shoulders- the one that authority figures did to direct you but not touch you. Stiles gestured towards the crowd, who were milling around mostly at the moment. 

“What’s going on?” 

Parrish rolled his lips up, frowning slightly. 

“Reporters.” He led him to the doors, sidestepping the people. They started to take notice of them walking, coming forward, and throwing questions he couldn’t understand at him and Parrish. 

“Yeah, I can see that.” Stiles said, before some of the words became clear. 

“Deputy! What can you tell me about Allison Argent’s death?”

“How does it relate to the attacks at the hospital, school, and the sheriff’s station?” 

“Does it have anything to do with the boy that was missing?”

“Hey, isn’t that him?!” Someone pointed at Stiles, and the reporters surged forward. 

The crowd grew louder, and Parrish practically shoved him into the door, closing the glass plane between the noise and Stiles. Stiles could feel his heart pounding. Parrish looked angry, and inside was a mad house. The place was still torn up from the bomb, but it was better than it had been: he remembered from being here, though it was a strange memory, since he hadn’t actually been moving his own body. The officers were answering phones right and left, and his dad was in the middle of it, talking on a line, his face red with anger. 

Parrish walked forward into the melee, asking quick questions and demanding answers. Stiles felt the words rush over him, but there was too much to take in, and he kept hearing Allison’s name. He clutched his chest, and stood against the doorframe, watching. 

At some point, his dad caught sight of Parrish, and stormed over. Anger didn’t describe what was happening on his face now; his dad was livid. Parrish’s jaw came up as his dad confronted him. 

“Parrish, what the hell is going on here? We’ve got reporters coming out of our ears!” 

Another officer leaned back in his chair, looking up at the Sheriff. “Sir?”

“Just tell ‘em ‘no comment’, Hamblin! You know this!” The Sheriff rubbed his eyes, and then zeroed in on Parrish again. Parrish looked stiff, defensive. 

“The attack on the hospital made National News, sir. We can’t expect to be left alone about this.”  
Stiles’ dad waved a hand around. “Yeah, but no one knew about Allison. No one connected Stiles, until now! They’re saying a deputy told them what to ask. What the hell happened?” 

Conspiracy theories and crazy connections were usually _totally_ Stiles’ cup of tea, but today he didn’t want to hear it. He panted, and stood still, waiting for his breathing to even out as the argument played out around him. 

Parrish had shifted until Stiles couldn’t see his face, but the Sheriff apparently did see something there, something he didn’t like at all. 

“Parrish, what did you do?”

“I may have suggested there was some connections.” He replied, unapologetically. Sheriff gaped, rage building. Parrish cut him off before he could speak. “Sir, I need to show you something, and you won’t like it.” 

He moved past the sheriff, pulled out a fat binder from his desk, and walked off. With anger building, Stiles’ dad followed him. Stiles, still over by the door, and seemingly forgotten by Parrish, lurched after them. Something was sickening in his gut, but it was something that told him that he needed to see this. 

Parrish led his dad into the small interrogation room next to the sheriff’s office. It was the same room he used to camp out in with his homework when he was younger, and Tara sat in sight of the door. He’d like it because it was quiet, and he could see his dad’s office through the window. Now, it looked completely different. The blinds were drawn, and the table was shoved to the side. The big one way mirror was dark; Stiles was careful to stay out of the reflection.

Parrish put the binder down on the table, and began removed papers, and photographs. From his place at the door, Stiles couldn’t see what was on them. Then, Parrish began taping them up. Pictures of the hospital, the station, the witnesses drawing of the oni from Agent McCall. There were reports, and sticky notes, and then a line of photos of Allison, Scott, Derek and Lydia. It was obvious that Parrish had put this up and taken it down enough that he knew which place the pieces went by heart. This string connected that, and it all led to one single picture in the middle. Parrish put that up last: a goofy-faced school picture of Stiles himself. Then Parrish stepped back, very carefully not glancing behind him at his audience. 

His dad had watched as this went up, frozen. Stiles didn’t think he knew he was there yet.

“What the hell am I looking at, Deputy?” He asked when Parrish finished, in that still voice that always preceded an explosion. Parrish flinched, obviously aware of that fact. Hey, Stiles was all for that. Yelling would jolt Stiles out of this stillness, where the only movement possible seemed to be his constant swallowing against the sick feeling in his stomach. 

Parrish, _finally_ , looked sympathetic. Jerk. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I know he’s your son, but Stiles...he fits into the center of so many cases, it’s ridiculous. I’m sure you’ve even thought of it-” Parrish’s eyes flickered to Stiles, and Stiles thought with a certainty that Parrish had brought him here on purpose. He _wanted_ him to react to this, this _wall_ of evidence. He wanted to force his dad into arresting him. 

His dad hadn’t turned, didn’t realize. His shoulders were a harsh line, but they didn’t block his sight of Stiles’ own face in the middle of a web of crimes. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, honestly. 

“Dad?” Stiles spoke up, breathlessly. The Sheriff turned sharply, his eyes resting on his son. Stiles stood crookedly, shaking. 

“Stiles!” His dad stepped closer, putting supporting hands on Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles met his dad’s eyes, begging.   
_Please don’t believe him, I didn’t do it. Then again, I kind of did do it, so maybe you had better arrest me now…_

Parrish watched, sudden concern flaring up in his face, but Stiles was too busy hyperventilating to do anything about it. The noises of people taking calls outside the room were suddenly lessened, and the sheriff leaned around Stiles to shut the door firmly. The silence in the room helped. 

“Dad, I-” 

“Shh, sh. You’re okay.” Over Stiles’ head, the Sheriff sent Parrish a dirty look, before directing Stiles to a chair, and pushing his head between his knees. He kept a soothing hand on his neck, rubbing little circles. With his other hand, he heard him dialing his phone, and then speaking into it quickly. 

“Scott, can you come get Stiles? At the station. Thank you, see you soon.” The phone beeped, and then the Sheriff was speaking again. Stiles concentrated on breathing. 

“Parrish, I’m going to give you five seconds to explain yourself, so I can explain to you how much of an idiot you’re being.”

Stiles looked up in time to see Parrish, looking frustrated, spread his hands. 

“Sir, you can’t just ignore this. I know he’s your son, but I have to do my duty. The evidence-”

“He’s not a murderer!” His dad defended, hotly. Parrish looked angry and sympathetic at the same time. Stiles pressed his elbows into his knees, and rubbed his face. In all technicality, he _was_ a murderer. Was it involuntary manslaughter if someone else was using your body? What’s the procedure for possession in a court of law? 

“He’s involved, is all I’m saying, I don’t think you should just send him off with his friend, when we need to question him.” 

That’s it. “Uh, he is sitting right here.” Stiles said, raising a finger. His dad’s hand fell from his neck, and he leaned forward to look him in the face. 

“No, Stiles. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to listen to this.”   
Lowering his voice, he met his dad’s eyes. Pain was jolting through him. 

“Yeah, but dad. I’m not exactly innocent, am I?” He whispered. Parrish was listening hard. Stiles refused to look at him. His dad looked anguished, angry, panicked. 

“No! Stiles, you’re _completely_ innocent. Dammit, son-”

“Dad.” Stiles’ lip wobbled, but he straightened it out, clearing his throat. “Maybe it’s for the best anyway. Then-” _Then I can’t hurt anyone else._

His dad was shaking his head, but Stiles kept talking. “Do the twenty-four hour lock up. Give you time to go through the evidence.”

Parrish stepped forward, his hands already pulling out the cuffs. The Sheriff shot him a glare, putting a hand out. 

“They don’t _have_ any evidence! You’re _not guilty_!”

Stiles smiled sadly. He wished he believed that. He put his hands out, and allowed Parrish to handcuff him. Now that he’d gotten his way, Parrish looked guilty and uncomfortable, clicking the cuffs around his wrists. Stiles shook off his previous panic, and the emotions that tried to swallow him, to smirk a little. 

“Go ahead and read me my rights, officer.” 

His dad watched, anguish on his face while Stiles was taken into the holding cell, through the rest of the station. Everyone stopped talking as he walked by, so Stiles tried to avoid looking at anyone. Especially his dad.


	11. Chapter 11

Scott arrived at the station in time to see Stiles taken into the back in handcuffs. A surge of panic pushed him forward, into the noise of the police officers, exploding into questions, and the Sheriff standing in the middle, still and slumped, like a broken tree in a storm. He ran up, and watched as Stiles disappeared into the lock up area, before turning towards the Sheriff. 

“What’s going on?” He demanded. The Sheriff didn’t move, staring at his hands. “Sheriff!”   
Jolting up, the Sheriff met Scott’s eyes. 

“They arrested him.” He said blankly. Scott’s heart dropped, fear pulsing through him. 

“For what?” 

The Sheriff swallowed. “Suspicion based on circumstance for now, plus Stiles actually volunteering. In twenty four hours, they have to charge him with something, or let him go, but…” He looked at Scott, pain in his face. 

“But he didn’t _do_ anything!” Scott said. He felt the presence of the other police officers, ignoring phones ringing in order to listen in on their conversation. He didn’t dare say more, and the Sheriff understood, pulling himself upright. 

“Scott, go in there. He’s allowed visitors. Tell him not to say anything, not to do anything. Tell him he’s not guilty, even if he thinks he is. I’m going to have to go.” 

Scott blanched. “What?” 

The Sheriff sighed, rubbing his eyes. “They won’t allow me to help with the investigation. Stiles is my only family, it’s too close for anything I find to be admissible.” He dropped his voice, to a tone that wouldn’t be loud enough for a human to hear. “I also might come under suspicion myself when they realize how much incriminating evidence is missing.”

Scott stared at the man, fear squeezing his heart. _No, no, no! This was all supposed to be over!_

“Go, Scott. Talk to him.” 

Scott nodded, and stepped away, towards the back of the building. It was the room that Isaac had been held him when he was a suspect of his own. It was the room that Matt locked his mom and the sheriff in. Inside the barred cell, curled on the bench against the wall, sat Stiles. 

He didn’t look up as Scott came closer, and Scott saw the slump of his shoulders, and the paleness of his skin. He really didn’t look any better. Depression, anxiety and guilt rolled off him, and he smelled of tears. Scott came closer, and put his hands on the bars. 

“Stiles.” Scott whispered, and Stiles looked up, sluggishly. He seemed confused, before remembering why Scott had come -run here from the preserve, where he’d been avoiding his dad. 

“Heya, Scottie.” Stiles said, voice hoarse. “Sorry you came all this way. I’m not actually going anywhere, looks like.”   
Stiles sounded hopeless, and his face was blank. Scott’s heart clenched. 

“Stiles, we’re going to get you out of here. There’s no way you’re gonna go to jail for something you didn’t do.” 

Stiles’ mouth quirked, and he waved one hand around a little. 

“Kinda already in jail, Scott.”

Scott leaned in, pressing his nose against the bars. 

“You’re _not _a murderer!” He ground out, in a low tone. Stiles shrugged.__

__“Debatable.”_ _

__“Shut up! _Don’t_ say anything, okay! I’m gonna talk to the pack.” _ _

__Stiles dropped his eyes to the ground. Scott felt frustration rise up, like bile behind his throat. “ _Stiles!_ ” _ _

__“Okay, fine. I won’t say anything. Exercise my right to remain silent, and all that.”_ _

__“Seriously, man. Please.”_ _

__Stiles finally met his eyes, and Scott was taken aback at how horrible he looked, not just the red rimming and the bruises underneath them, but the deadness, the guilt in them. Stiles was _not_ fine. He’d already known that, but now he knew just how far from it Stiles was. _ _

__Stiles swallowed, and just looked so _broken_._ _

__“Scott, maybe it’s the best thing...this way...if it gets me again. I can’t hurt anyone else…”_ _

__“It’s _not_ getting you again. It’s gone forever, and you don’t deserve to pay for the things it did.”_ _

__“But I let it in-”_ _

__“No, you didn’t. I know you didn’t.”_ _

__“But, I couldn’t close the door, Scott.” Stiles’ eyes shone with tears in the dim room. “I couldn’t do it, and it got in. It got in, and it’s my fault-”_ _

__Stiles voice stuttered out, and he put his fist against his mouth, curling inwards. Scott ached to go to him, hug him until he understood that he wasn’t at fault here. Stiles was a victim of an insane spirit, and there was nothing he did to deserve it. Scott knew that this was over his head, that Stiles needed real help, but how could he talk to a therapist about being possessed by a nogitsune? Aside from Ms. Morrell, who he didn’t trust at all, they all would throw Stiles back into the mental hospital for delusions._ _

__Scott leaned as close as he could to the bars, and reached out his hand. Stiles made no move to come close, to allow him to comfort him through touch._ _

__“Stiles,” Scott said, pulling his hand back. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t _want_ this to happen, any of this, so it _can’t_ be your fault.”_ _

__There was a long silence, and the Stiles looked up again. His face was shiny with tears, and full of anguish. He spoke, and his voice was thin and rough, hitching halfway through._ _

__“I did, though. For a little bit. I _wanted_ it; the chaos, the pain. I _liked_ it. The nogitsune knew that. It picked me because of that.” Stiles sobbed out the last part, covering his mouth with both hands, like he could take back what he probably thought was the worst secret he could ever say. _ _

__Scott was silent, trying not to let the shock and horror that flitted through him show on his face. It was quickly replaced with determination. Swallowing, Scott prayed he wasn’t about to make everything worse._ _

__“Did you want Allison to die?”_ _

__Surprise shot Stiles’ eyebrows up, and he jerked his head to Scott’s. “No! Of course I didn’t!”_ _

__Scott pressed on. “Did you want all those other people to die?”_ _

__“No, no-”_ _

__With a firm mouth, and feeling the strength of his pack behind him, Scott finished._ _

__“Then, you _don’t_ want the pain and chaos. The nogitsune was tricking you, manipulating you. You’re innocent.” The pronouncement fell like a judge’s knell, with the echo of authority, and Stiles was staring at him, jaw hanging. _ _

__“Scott-” Stiles whispered, and his chin wobbled. Tears dripped, joining the moisture already on his cheeks, and Scott thought that maybe, _maybe_ he’d gotten through to him. “Scott, I’m so scared…” _ _

__Scott reached out again, and this time Stiles got up to come closer. The bars were in the way of a full hug, but Scott reached in to hold him anyway. Stiles clenched his hands in Scott’s shirt, pressing his head against the bars between them. His shoulders shook beneath his hands, and Scott remembered the last time they’d hugged, aside from last night, outside the MRI machine before everything had gone to shit. That time, Stiles was comforting him, for the most part. That time felt like a goodbye, while this time, Scott felt some hope building._ _

__“Scott, I’m not okay.” Stiles murmured, face angled towards the ground. Scott tightened his hand on Stiles back, and stroked his hair, answering strongly._ _

__“I know. But, it’s okay. You will be.”_ _

__

__*****_ _

__

__Derek’s loft was full again, first time since the black-light party, Lydia thought. Derek sat in his wooden chair (the one that went with the big table, but was never next to it) with Peter lurking behind him on the staircase. The Sheriff and Mr. Argent were here, unusually, but obviously Stiles’ father would want to come to a meeting about him, and apparently, Isaac had told Mr. Argent what was going on and he decided to come on his own. Isaac was leaning on the wall-his old stance, instead of placing himself behind Scott’s right shoulder like had become usual. Kira was here, but not her mother. Scott’s mom was as well. Lydia sat in another chair, furthest away from Peter. In the middle was Scott._ _

__This was the pack now (with Peter only peripherally included). A disjointed group, all looking to a seventeen year old alpha for guidance. Werewolves, humans, a banshee, a kitsune, and a hunter, all over shadowed by the ghost of another huntress, and the absence of an ex-nogitsune. What a crowd._ _

__Lydia tossed her hair back over her shoulder, trying to project her normal self, and attempting to pay attention. Scott had called them all together, for the first time in a long time, since before all this started, to discuss Stiles._ _

__“What can we do?” Mrs. McCall said the question on everyone’s mind._ _

__The Sheriff rubbed his head. “Not much, at this point. It all depends on if I left anything behind, or they suspect me of stealing the evidence. If McCall puts the pieces together, and tells them, then they’ll have to come after Scott as well.”_ _

__“Why, what did Scott do?” Derek asked. Scott looked a little sheepish._ _

__“I smashed the video tapes from the hospital cameras.” He said._ _

__“They would have had Stiles’ face on them.” Lydia murmured, recalling in a flash the cold eyes of the nogitsune behind Stiles’ usual brown._ _

__“His father saw him do it.” Mrs. McCall said, folding her arms._ _

__“I told you. You have to talk to him, get him to believe the truth.” Lydia said._ _

__“I know, I know.” Scott snapped, looking slightly panicked at the thought._ _

__“We should get him out of there. You guys got me out.” Isaac said, the first time he spoke all evening. Derek, of all people, shook his head._ _

__“That was urgent. It was your first full moon, and you weren’t safe there. Stiles only has twenty four hours, and then he’s out if they don’t find anything, right?” He directed his words towards the Sheriff. He nodded._ _

__“They have to charge him with something to keep him. _Hopefully_ they won’t find something I missed.” Lydia could see that he looked sick with worry that he had. _ _

__Mr. Argent raised two fingers, interjecting. Lydia felt horrible that he was even there, he didn’t deserve to be dragged into more problems, when he was dealing with so much._ _

__“I’d like to offer the use of my attorney. She’s aware of our world, so we can give her all the facts, should Stiles need to be defended.”_ _

__The Sheriff was looking at Argent with blank gratefulness, but Lydia was wondering how a lawyer could possibly spin possession by an evil spirit into something that wouldn’t result in Stiles being locked up- either in a mental hospital, or jail._ _

__Scott had stilled, and was looking towards the ground, when he spoke up._ _

__“The problem, I think, will be Stiles. He won’t defend himself. He thinks he deserves to be locked up, that it’s safer for everyone.”_ _

__Lydia clenched down her teeth, rage taking her by surprise. “Stiles would make turning himself in his cry for help.”_ _

__The Sheriff nodded. “He’s been struggling since it all ended. I don’t know what to do for him. I thought, since it had only been a few days, he’d get through it, but...” Then, he seemed to think for a moment. “Chris, you have a lawyer that knows about the supernatural. Do you happen to know any psychiatrists?”_ _

__Chris shook his head. “I know one hunter who had training, but I don’t know how sympathetic he would be to the situation.”_ _

__Then Peter, who up to now had been silent, spoke._ _

__“I do.” He said mildly, looking at a fingernail. Lydia raised an eyebrow._ _

__“You do.” She said dubiously. The Sheriff had his eyes narrowed. She didn’t know how much of Peter’s past with them the Sheriff knew, but she hoped he wasn’t about to trust the former alpha. Derek was looking at his uncle in surprise as well._ _

__“Who?” He asked, and Peter shrugged at his nephew._ _

__“Just an old family friend. Thalia used to know him. He’s quite good.”_ _

__Derek looked frustrated. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned him before?” The betrayal was just under the surface; Lydia was sure that there were times that Derek would have wished for someone to talk to, like a therapist. But, Peter doesn’t volunteer information. He waits until it serves him._ _

__“His name just came back to me. I honestly don’t even know if he’s alive.”_ _

__Scott was growling, stepping forward, and Lydia knew for sure that his eyes were red as he glared at Peter._ _

__“Give us the name.”_ _

__Peter raised his hands. “Okay, fine. I’ll get you his card. But I think you have to get Stiles out of jail first, before you can worry about his poor little brain.”_ _

__“He’s right.” Isaac said. The Sheriff put his hand on his forehead._ _

__“Okay, we’ll know for sure in…” He glanced at his watch, “twenty-two hours if they charge him with anything. I suggest we get some sleep. Chris, can you call your lawyer?” Chris nodded. “Scott. You’ve got to find your father. If he believes you, he might hold off on everything. We need him on our side for this. Everyone else, go home.”_ _

__Scott looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. As everyone rose, Lydia went over to Scott and slipped her hand into his._ _

__“Do you want me to come while you talk to him?” She whispered. Scott swallowed, and shook his head._ _

__“I’ve gotta do this alone. But, thanks.”_ _

__Squeezing his fingers once, she let him go, and watched everyone file out of Derek’s loft. She didn’t really want to go yet.  
Anger was rising up, and joining the maelstrom of emotions she had already been feeling, and the world outside just seemed too big for it all. _ _

__It was too soon to deal with this again. They’d just saved Stiles, at a terrible cost, and now they had to save him again-this time from his own stupidity. The Sheriff had told them how he practically stuck his hands into the handcuffs unprompted. Was Stiles really feeling enough guilt and self-loathing to think that he was better off in jail than getting any help?_ _

__Lydia paced back and forth in front of the wall of windows, wringing her hands and trying not to let the emotions she was feeling bubble out of her control. She was vaguely aware that she was still in Derek’s loft, and that Peter and Derek were both still here and were watching her in confusion. Peter dared to open his mouth._ _

__“Uh, Lydia? You are aware we’re still here, right?”_ _

__Lydia whipped a hand up, silencing him. He stepped back, and leaned down to Derek (who was staring at her in slight alarm)._ _

__“I’m gonna go... Good luck with the angry banshee.” Out of the corner of her eye, she say Derek turn a glare on Peter as he slipped out of the room, but then Lydia went back to pacing._ _

__Derek, left alone with her, gave an audible swallow, and then stepped a little closer._ _

__“Lydia, are you alright?” He asked, tentatively. Lydia stopped pacing, facing away from him, and then shook her head. Derek frowned, as she started making the circuit again. “Do you…want to talk about it?”_ _

__Did she? It felt like her insides were boiling, wanting to spill out. Maybe in the open air, things wouldn’t seem so overwhelming. Derek was a better person than most to talk to. He wouldn’t gossip about you; he barely spoke anyway, and she’d seen yesterday that he had rare understanding._ _

__“Yes,” She decided, and twisted her hands together. It was a nervous habit she wished she could curb. Derek raised his eyebrows, and opened his mouth to respond, but Lydia beat him to the punch._ _

__“Why does he have to be such an idiot!” She burst out. Rage was surging up, helpfully replacing the grief and pain she’d been fighting for three days. God, it had only been three days. “ _He_ survived. We brought him back, and he goes and does this!”_ _

__Derek was watching her, as she paced back and forth across his floor, and probably filled the room with the sound of her thumping heart, and the smell of anger. Tears felt imminent as well. She rubbed her fist over her lips (lucky she didn’t wear lipstick today) and tried to control herself._ _

__“We can’t lose him too, we just can’t. We already lost All- Allison-” She choked a little, and the tears came forward. “Aiden, Jackson, the others...We’re losing Isaac, and Scott won’t talk to his father, and I can’t hold everyone together! I can’t.”_ _

__Derek, looking less alarmed than she would have thought at a girl crying in his apartment (then again, he had had sisters), spoke then._ _

__“You don’t have to do it alone, Lydia.” Unspoken was the list of people there for her (so many more than earlier that year, when she’d felt so alone): Scott, her mom, Melissa McCall, the Sheriff, Derek himself. But, it had all been so new anyway. How long could it last?_ _

__“I’m scared for him.” She whispered. New tears came to her eyes, and she sobbed. “I miss her.”_ _

__Derek didn’t move, holding himself stiffly on the chair, but Lydia didn’t need him to do the normal human thing of hugging her. He didn’t even say ‘it’ll be okay’. He looked at her, and believed her, and that was enough._ _


	12. Chapter 12

Scott left the meeting with his stomach pressing against his throat, and anger building behind his eyes. He wasn’t even sure if his eyes were red or normal colored, as he walked out of the building. Behind him, his mom jogged to catch up. He recognized her heartbeat, and knew that she was concerned, and upset at him. 

“Mom, I know.” He said, as soon as she was close enough, without turning around. They were almost to the empty lot that they parked in when visiting Derek (idly, Scott wondered what happened to Derek’s Camaro, since it obviously wasn’t parked here). His bike was next to his mom’s car, which meant he couldn’t escape easily without hearing what she had to say.

“Scott, I’m serious. _This_ is serious. You get that, right?” Melissa’s tone was fierce, and Scott felt his shoulders rise, like he was seven again. 

“ _Yes_.” Scott said, taking the helmet off the bike seat. “I’ll talk to him.” He very very much didn’t want to, but Stiles was depending on him, as was the rest of the pack. He’d do it for them; expose himself and the supernatural world to his FBI agent of a father, who he wasn’t sure he’d ever trust again. But he had to. Trusting that his dad would believe him, and help them was their only hope. “It’s the right thing to do, I know.” 

Melissa’s face had softened when he looked over, and she reached up to cup his face. 

“You’re such a man now, Scott. Sometimes I don’t even recognize you.” She smiled, and kissed his forehead.   
Scott smiled slightly, and ducked his head away. She pulled back, and her face grew worried. 

“Do you want me to come with you? I can help hold him down while you tell him.”

Scott smiled wider, and shook his head. 

“No, I have to do this alone.”

“Okay. I think I’m going to go over to the Stilinski’s house with some more dinner. See if there’s anything else I can do.” She leaned in for a hug, and Scott squeezed her tight, before letting go and getting on the bike. “Good luck, baby.” 

“See you, mom.” 

 

****

 

The jail cell bench was _not_ the most comfortable seat in the world. Not that it was _terribly_ bad, for a jail cell bench. Stiles imagined; he really hadn’t had the opportunity to sample many jail cell benches. Firm plastic, no wooden slats or splinters, and the wall was comfortably close, so he could lean sideways into it, with his feet pulled up. Okay, but not great. He was 99% sure that his butt was like, totally asleep, though. 

Stiles shifted slightly from where he was curled on the bench, and then winced. Yup. Definitely asleep. 

_Get used to it_ , a voice inside told him. He was a murderer, with a darkness inside him that fed chaos and destruction. He maybe (probably) wasn’t even human anymore. He didn’t deserve a comfy chair. 

Stiles swallowed, and tried not to think about emerging from the ground as a poorly made copy of himself, while his original body ran off only to dissolve into dust in front of him. 

Ah, the not thinking thing still didn't work too well. 

The click of the door opening in the main room jolted Stiles out of his thoughts (gladly) and Stiles looked up to see Parrish walking in. Unlike before, when he was definitely tricking him with skill, he looked nervous and guilty. Stiles watched him come closer, and stop in front of the bars. His twenty four hours weren’t up yet, it had been _at most_ three or four hours, and Stiles knew Parrish wasn’t here just to chat. So, he waited for the questions that were most definitely on their way. 

“So, you tricked me.” He said, and yeah maybe he was going a little stir crazy in here alone, and he’d speak first. That works too. 

Parrish reacted to his question by quirking his lips a little. 

“Sorry about that.”

“No, no. It was very well done.” Stiles said, and the impressed feeling wasn’t completely his own. Apparently, the nogitsune had left behind not only guilt, and darkness, and shame, but also a new appreciation for tricks. The thought made him slightly sick. 

Parrish shrugged. “Still, I wasn’t intending on arresting you. I only wanted to ask you some questions.” 

Stiles leaned back on the wall, and poked one finger around the metal bar next to him.

“I guess I have a guilty conscience.” He murmured, thinking about how he’d stuck his hands out for the cuffs, no prompting needed. His dad was gonna kill him. 

Parrish gave him a look; not the triumphant one he would have expected, nor one that said he was going to jump on a lead to question to the ground. He’d watched the cops interrogate before, he knew the one. No, it was confusion, and concern. Poor guy really didn’t know what was going on. 

“Are you confessing?” He asked, and Stiles put his legs down on the ground, leveling a look of his own to the deputy. 

“Are you charging me?”

Parrish narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. “Not yet.” 

Stiles nodded, and sat back again, pulling one leg underneath him. He felt almost disappointed. 

“I promised Scott I wouldn’t say anything. Right to remain silent, and all that.” 

Parrish chuckled a little, and Stiles glanced up at him. He was smiling. 

“Stiles, I haven’t known you very long, but I think I know that remaining silent isn’t your MO.”

Stiles actually huffed at that, and then he tried to remember the last time he’d laughed. The rave? Before that? He had no idea. 

“Yeah, that’s true.” He said, smiling. It felt weird, that the first time he’d smiled since it was all over was from the inside of a jail cell. Oh, well. “Hey, didn’t you have some questions?”

Parrish smiled too. “I thought you weren’t going to say anything?”

Stiles shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t ask.” 

Pulling out the keys, Parrish unlocked and opened the door, and then put a pair of cuffs on Stiles’ wrists. 

“Alright, Stiles, let’s get you to Interrogation.” 

 

****

 

Scott’s dad was sitting in the office he’d been using, and Scott felt his heart sink a bit- he’d been immaturely hoping that Agent McCall wouldn’t be there, and he wouldn’t have to talk to him. No luck. McCall looked frustrated, staring at his computer, but he turned when Scott tapped on the door. 

“Scott.” He said, rising, startled. Scott nodded, and came further in. He tried to hide his nerves and the urge to hide under the table like he had when he was a little kid and his parents were fighting. His dad wasn’t scary, and telling him the truth about werewolves wasn’t worse than tricking Gerard, or fighting Ducalian, or facing down an evil doppelganger of his best friend. He just had to keep telling himself that. 

“Dad, I need to talk to you.” 

McCall looked peeved and relieved at the same time. “Well, it’s about time. Do you know how long I’ve been chasing you around this town?” 

Scott put his hands in his pockets, and tried to think how to start. 

“I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I noticed.” His dad said, without missing a beat. Scott frowned, and tried to keep calm. McCall sucked in his cheeks, and looked at the ground for a second, before he got up, and moved over the to the couch in the corner, gesturing to the other side of the couch. Scott took a seat, glad to be on even ground. His dad’s heartbeat was nervous, like it had been when he’d told him his _big secret_ about leaving. Scott wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable with this. 

“I think you must hate me.” McCall finally said, after Scott had taken too long gathering his thoughts. Scott blew out a breath, and looked over. 

“I don’t hate you.” He said, pulling his eyes back to his lap. This wasn’t what he was going to talk about, but somehow he couldn’t get it out. He felt bad now about pushing Stiles to tell his own dad about everything. The words just didn’t come. 

“Well, mad at me, then.” Scott stayed silent, since that was definitely true. McCall sighed, and put his head in his hands. Scott watched as his fingers rubbed at his nose, and his mouth pursed. It occurred to him that his dad felt just as bad about leaving as Scott was angry. It didn’t make it better, but it sort of helped. McCall pulled back from his hands, and looked at him. “I promised your mom I’d try at this, Scott. I’m trying.” 

Scott swallowed, looking at his hands, his fingers, knowing that with the slightest push of will, claws would spring from his nails, and fangs from his jaws. That would show his dad what he was trying to say. That was how his mom found out-suddenly her son sprouted hair and teeth, and all she had to do was come to terms. He was asking his dad to not only listen, and believe, but also to risk his job and save them from arrest and legal ramifications that came from this whole thing. 

“Dad, that’s not what I came here to talk about.” McCall looked confused, and Scott took a deep breath, and turned on the couch, putting his hand out in front of him. “There’s something I need to tell you. And you won’t believe me, but I _swear_ , it’s the truth.”

“Scott, what are you-”

“Please, Dad, just listen.” Scott swallowed hard, and looked his father in the eye. “Almost a year ago, in January, I...was out in the woods with Stiles.”

His dad was watching him, obviously thinking _get to the point_. Out in the woods with Stiles wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. Scott swallowed, remembering that night. 

“It was the night a body was found, and the police were all over the place. We were trying to get a look.” 

McCall spoke, “That’s -”

“Stupid, I know.” Scott closed his eyes, thinking this might be easier if he didn’t look at him. “I got separated from Stiles; the sheriff caught him and took him home, so I was out there alone. Only, I wasn’t alone-”

“Scott, just spit it out already!” Agent McCall was tapping his finger impatiently, and Scott realized he’d been rambling. He stopped, and took a deep breath-sure that this couldn’t be scarier than facing down Duchalian. 

“Dad, that night...I was bit by a werewolf.”

McCall stared at him. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this out! Work slammed me, and I've been so busy. I'm also starting to catch up to where I had written, so I'm going to promise now to get out the next chapter on Monday, no matter what, so that it's in writing. If I have to write frantically all weekend to make it, so be it.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles let himself be handcuffed to the table, like he’s seen done a million times before in all the shows. He tapped two fingers, and then leaned back in the chair, and watched as Parrish sat in the seat opposite. Behind him was the wall width one way mirror. Stiles tried not to look at himself in in-he’d avoided mirrors in general since everything, but in glimpses he did see that he was looking slightly better. Yay. His skin was less dead, and the bags under his eyes were receding, until they screamed _druggy!_ rather than _dying cancer patient!_ Not a huge difference, but still. Hey, maybe he could use drugs as a cover story. The rest of the school would totally believe that, and it might even avoid the whole ‘crazy’ stigma. Though, Lydia handled it well. 

Stiles shook himself, wondering why he was even thinking about this. Most likely, he was going to jail for multiple murders he only didn’t commit by intention, since it was definitely his hands that rigged bombs, and stabbed swords. He was going to be locked up for life. 

Parrish settled in, now looking nice and sympathetic. It was a good look for him, probably pretty natural-though he obviously used it for his nefarious purposes, such as tricking him into literally crying at him. Gah, he was still embarrassed about that. 

Stiles shifted in his seat, and then put his hands together, trying not to tap them together. 

“So, do I get an attorney?” He asked, cause that’s what you always ask. Parrish tilted his head. 

“Do you want one? We can assign one, unless you have someone to call on your own.” 

Stiles shrugged. He didn’t know anyone. Nothing any one of them could do anyway, and he wasn’t sure he’d let them, if there was. Only his promise to Scott made him keep his mouth shut now. 

“Okay, let’s start with a few questions.” 

Stiles leaned forward quickly, quirking his mouth. “Where was I on the night of the fifth?”

Parrish huffed, looking actually amused. “Not exactly. I want you to tell me what’s been going on with you.” 

Stiles leaned back, dropping the smile. Anxious energy tapped his fingers, and churned his stomach, at the return of the subject. 

“I’m fine.” He said. Parrish’s face softened. 

“I know that’s not true. You look like you’ve been through hell.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I mean it. What’s been happening to you? To all of you?”

Stiles leaned forward on his elbows. The room suddenly seemed too small. There wasn’t anything he could say, not without giving away everything, but he had a sudden urge to just spill it all. He wanted someone impartial, who didn’t love him, to tell him that either everything was his fault or nothing was, because he couldn’t believe the absolution of blame from his Dad or Scott, they just wanted him to be okay. He wasn’t okay, and it might be a vain wish, but he wanted someone else to know that. Of course, he couldn’t say anything to Parrish. Or anyone. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about it.”

Parrish blew out from his nose a tiny bit, and Stiles half shrugged. 

“Hey, I told you I wouldn’t say anything.” 

“You did say that,” Parrish agreed, “But I never promised not to ask questions.” 

Stiles put out a hand, aborted by the cuff attached to the table. “Ask away. Though, aren’t I a minor? Shouldn’t my dad be here?”

“By law, you technically aren’t in the case of violent crimes. You’re seventeen, and allowed to tried as an adult by the State of California. You can ask for your dad to be here, if you want?”

Stiles was already shaking his head. He didn’t want his dad here, didn’t want to worry or upset him. Parrish nodded, and pulled out a file folder, laying it flat between them, before steepling his fingers. 

“There is _something_ happening. Something not normal. I can’t figure out anything that fits all the pieces. You and Scott are involved. Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Derek Hale, and- well, and Allison Argent.”

Stiles winced at Allison’s name. That was still a raw wound that he avoided the edges of. Allison was dead because of him. Parrish gave him an apologetic look, before moving on. 

“Your dad knows, maybe Ms. McCall.” Stiles listened as he ticked off most of his friends, and family. He wasn’t surprised, since he’d seen the pictures. And it wasn’t hard to see who Stiles ran around with all day. “The question is, know _what?_ ” 

Stiles poked at his handcuffs, nerves making his fingers fidgety, his heart quick. 

“What are your theories?” He asked, twisting the chains tighter around the bones of his wrist. It hurt. 

Parrish grew serious. “I don’t have much, besides suspicious circumstances and a whole lot of unexplained events.”

“Doesn’t sound like enough to arrest someone.” Stiles said, eyes down. 

“Technically, you turned yourself in.” Parrish replied. Stiles let the chains untangle, leaving a red mark around his wrist. “Stiles, you’re at the center of a massive amount of cases. You find bodies, you’re the sole witness to murders and disappearances, you show up at crime scene after crime scene for no good reason. More recently, I’ve seen you deliberately antagonize Agent McCall during the Barrow investigation.”

“Have you seen that guy? It’s hard not to antagonize him.”

Parrish didn’t smile. Darn, he had hopes for the man’s sense of humor.

“It was enough to get a search warrant. There’s a team of police investigators at your house, right now.” He said. 

Stiles flashed to his bedroom wall. It would make him look so guilty. There was probably stuff about werewolves and banshees and spirits laying around, and there _may_ have been some spell books, because hey, he was curious. So, yeah, they’ll think he’s a cult worshipping, ritualistic killer with an interest in supernatural creatures. He’ll be convicted as insane, if he’s lucky. 

Parrish was watching his reaction with interest. Then he looked down and opened the file folder, and started pulling photos out. The first ones he knew. 

“Erika Reyes, and Vernon Boyd. Reported missing last year, now presumed dead. Both were caught up in your little group.” Stiles swallowed, remembering the last time he’d seen Erika was hanging from the Argent’s ceiling being electrocuted. Boyd, he watched be impaled on Derek’s claws. He twisted the chain again. 

“I don’t know what happened to them.” 

Parrish looked at him, and then pulled out more pictures. Heather, the boy that Lydia found, the student on the cross country track, Katelyn’s girlfriend, and more. All the victims of Ms. Blake and her mad search for power. Stiles was sure he paled. 

“What do you know about these people’s deaths?”

Stiles put his hands flat on the table. “My dad testified that Ms. Blake took him-”

“But we never found her, or any evidence that she was anything more than a school teacher.” 

“But she disappeared right after that night. Isn’t that pretty suspicious?”

“Not conclusive. We’re still following other lines of inquiry.”

“Including inquiring at me. Well, I don’t know anything.” Stiles said, defensive about his dad. They could not believe Stiles all they liked, but his dad was telling the truth! Well, as much of it as he could. 

“You identified the first body, you found the second. You reported two of the teachers missing, and you were at the school the night your friend Lydia was strangled. Then later the same night you were at the hospital when your dad was abducted. The common thread is you.”

Stiles stared at the table top, trying to keep his breathing even. That night was one of the worst ones of his life, and it had the added bonus of being the beginning of everything else that had happened. Scott had gone off with the alphas, they’d sacrificed themselves for their parents. The sacrifice had brought the nogitsune here, had opened that door in his mind and let it take over. Allison was dead, Aiden too. His friends were traumatized and he would never be alright. His father was losing his son, and Stiles couldn’t even bring up the energy to fight against it. 

Parrish was watching him. “Stiles. If you’re involved with something; a gang, drugs. If someone is controlling you, we can help-”

Stiles broke into painful laughter. _Controlling_ him. That was rich. Parrish had no idea. The officer looked confused. 

“Someone _is_ controlling you, Stiles? Telling you to do things, to lie to the police?”

Stiles shook his head, still giggling. Okay, it was a little manic sounding, so the concerned look on Parrish’s face was a little warranted. But what in the hell could he say? _Yes, something was controlling me, but it’s okay now. My werewolf best friend bit my evil doppelganger and his maybe new girlfriend stabbed him with an ancient sword and he turned to dust in front of me. Nbd._

Parrish leaned forward, face intense. “Stiles, does it have something to do with this?”

Then, he pulled out another picture-this one very familiar to him. Barrow’s face stared up from the table. 

“My first big case in this town was the escape of William Barrow. Someone let him into the school, told him to kill Kira. You, and your friends were last people to see him, and he’s still at large.”

Stiles looked at the picture, knowing it was the same one that hung in his bedroom-the one from the police reports way back when he’d blown up the school bus. But something about the weasel-y glare, and the watery eyes was making him feel a strange sense of pride and nausea. LIke there was something he...wasn’t quite remembering. 

“I don’t know anything about him.” Stiles murmured, rubbing his temple. 

Barrow’s face flashed through his brain (which didn’t make sense since he hadn’t actually seen him, except in pictures…). His face, looking at Stiles with adoration, and terror. 

“He was a patient at the same mental facility that you were. Did you coordinate with him? Was he was one controlling you?”

Stiles couldn’t catch his breath. There was a rushing image in his brain, something he’d forgotten, something he’d done. 

“Um,” He gasped, swallowed, and then distantly he heard Parrish ask if he was okay. He wasn’t. 

Hands were on his shoulder, but the room was fading...

_Barrow was in a garage, familiar feeling, there were wires in his hands, a timer box, glue spread and stuck to the heater. The heat was connected to a natural gas line. An engineer could use a boiler to blow up the school, a house and the surrounding ones would be less than a problem. Stiles watched with satisfaction until the wiring was done, and the switch was rigged to a handheld device. Then, Barrow was closer, throat under his hands, and Stiles watched the veins in his hands swell as he squeezed, and squeezed and Barrow’s eyes bulged, until he fell. Stiles placed the trigger in Barrow’s hand, dead and stiffening already, pressing down the **literal** dead man’s switch, before covering him up, hiding him under a tarp and a pile of plywood. Stiles went outside, and he knew that the Stilinski’s home would be a pile of matchsticks as soon as the body was disturbed. Stiles felt only pleasure at the thought._

Stiles, himself again, screamed.

 

****

 

Lydia left Derek’s loft in a daze-feeling better from talking, but with a headache pressing against her temples. Her car (finally reclaimed from the police) was in the parking lot, and Lydia determined she was going to get in the car, go home, and take a long bath. Maybe it would help her headache. The pressure was building. 

There was a noise: _Tick tick tick tick tick…_

Seconds were ticking down, and down, and down, and Lydia knew this wasn’t a headache. She pressed her hands against her ears. Supernatural dread, and confusion weighed down on her, and the ticking was growing louder and louder. 

Lydia dropped her purse, and crouched against her car, panting. An urge was pressing against the back of her throat, and the noise was growing. 

_Tick tick tick tick tick **tick tick TICK TICK TICK!**_

Lydia screamed. 

Derek, up in his loft, heard the sound. 

Seconds later, Lydia looked up at Derek, kneeling over her, and tried to catch her breath. With a raspy throat, she gripped his sleeve, and said. 

“We need to get to Stiles’ house. Someone’s going to die.”


	14. Chapter 14

The sound of a dread filled scream, just on the edge of hearing, broke through Scott’s attempted explanation. He could feel the fear, the warning of the banshee and member of his pack, and he had to fight the sudden urge to howl back. Then, at the same moment, but feeling ages apart, there was a much closer sound: Stiles, yelling from the back of the police station. 

His father was still in front of him, having heard nothing. Agent McCall was angry, and confused, which only made him more furious. He had his hands on his hips, and some animal part of Scott bristled at the posturing. Of his feet, McCall ranted. 

“Is this your idea of a joke?” He waved a hand around. “Scott, this isn’t funny!”

“Dad-” Scott stood moving towards the door, but he was cut off.

“Stiles is in _jail_ , and you’re making up stories?”

“Dad! Let me through!” McCall blocked him, as if his human body could stop Scott. Stress and anger were coming off him in waves, and his face was turning red. 

“Where the hell are you going?” Scott knew he expected an explanation, even if he didn’t deserve it. Scott meant to give him one, or at least part of one. But, down the hall, he could hear his best friend panicking, begging for something, and he felt a pull towards him, a member of his pack, that he couldn’t explain or ignore. He stepped towards his dad and _growled_.

“Stop it!” McCall paled, frozen as Scott’s eyes flashed red. He let his teeth emerge, and the growl deepened. “Listen to me. I am a werewolf. Here’s your proof.”

McCall had his mouth open, either to say something or scream. Scott didn’t really care. 

“Stiles is in trouble, I can hear him. I can smell your anger, and I can hear your watch ticking. If you shot me with your gun, I’d heal. I can hear Stiles down the hall, and I _have_ to go to him. So, let me pass.” 

Scott let the wolf recede, and McCall staggered to the side, letting him through the door of the office. 

Stiles’ holding cell was in the back of the building, but the sounds were closer. Interrogation. Scott rushed into the only lit room, and flung the door so wide it hit the wall. 

Stiles and Parrish were inside, with Stiles chained to a table, and Parrish standing across from him. His friend was cringing, tearing at the chains, and begging to be let out. Parrish looked confused, and very alarmed. 

“Stiles!” 

Stiles looked up, his startled face tear streaked and white with fear. “Scott!” He sobbed, and reached out. His wrists were red and raw where he’d been pulling. “Scott, I have to get out, let me out of here, I did something, I did something, and Dad, it’s gonna get Dad, Scott, please!” He was rambling, crying still and Scott’s heart clenched in fear. He’d never seen Stiles like this. 

He ran forward, and put his hands over Stiles, to stop him from pulling and hurting himself more. Behind him, Parrish was talking. 

“He just started panicking, there was no warning. I don’t know what happened.” 

Ignoring him, Scott held Stiles’ hands, and tried to get his rolling eyes to look at him in the face, to ground him somehow. 

“Stiles, Stiles, shh, what happened. Tell me what happened.” Scott tried to calm him, but Stiles was still writhing, pulling away, trying to get free. 

“Ah, Scott, please, get me out of here! Scott! It’s gonna hurt my dad!”

“What’s going to hurt your dad?” Scott asked. Stiles whimpered, sounding like he had on the phone. 

“The bomb, Scott, please.” He finally whispered, and Scott felt a chill go through him. Parrish moved closer behind him. Scott wished he’d leave. “I remembered… I remembered.” 

“You remembered a bomb?” Scott asked, fingers tightening slightly. Stiles, calming a little, nodded. 

“It killed Barrow, left the body at my house, attached to a bomb. Scott, my dad’s at home, it’s gonna kill him…” His lips wobbled, and tears streaked again down his face. Scott stepped back, and looked at Parrish. 

“Unlock him.” He ordered, knowing he was using a bit of his ‘wolf voice’, as Stiles usually called it. 

Parrish was shaking his head, confused and angry, already reaching for his radio. 

“If Stiles planted a bomb, we need to call the bomb threat department, not set him free!” 

Scott stood up straighter. “Unlock him, now!” Parrish’s confusion grew, and he pressed down the button on the radio, opening his mouth. Letting out a growl, Scott turned back to Stiles at the table, and ripped up the chains, leaving the cuffs dangling from Stiles’ wrists. He was free. 

With a gasp, Stiles scrambled up, and out. Scott followed after him. Parrish, jaw hanging, stood frozen for a second, before he too was running after them. 

“How-?” 

But Scott left him behind, following after Stiles-past his gaping father, and through the police station towards where Stiles’ jeep was parked.

“Call my dad!.” He said urgently. Scott tried to pull out his phone while running. 

“What happened?” Scott asked, jumping into the passenger seat. Stiles was already in the driver’s side, sweating and trembling. He jerked the jeep into drive, and turned out of the parking lot. 

“I remembered something. I- oh god,” He pressed a wrist against his mouth briefly, before continuing. “I killed Barrow, Scott. I strangled him.” Stiles looked down at his hands, and seemed to realize that he was squeezing the steering wheel-much like Barrow’s neck must have been, if he’d been strangled. Gasping, he jerked his hands back, and Scott almost had to dive over to take over steering, before Stiles got a hold of himself, though he still looked like he’d be sick any moment. Shock and pain were choking Scott’s chest. 

Stiles swallowed hard, and gripped the wheel deliberately. 

“I killed him, and then wired his body to a bomb in my house. As soon as he’s moved, it will go off. There are police searching my house right now.”

Scott suddenly realized the last thing his mom had said to him, that she was going over to the Stilinski’s house. “My mom is too! She was going to visit.”

Stiles sent him a look of fear, and sped up the car. “Call them. Call them right now!” Scott dialed. 

Before the phone even got a chance to pick up, there was a police cruiser whoop from behind them. Scott turned in his seat, to see the silhouette of Parrish, and his father in a police car close behind them. The sirens flipped on.  
Stiles glanced in the rear view mirror, and grit his teeth. 

“Hell, no.” He bit out, and sped up. 

The phone Scott was holding went to his mom’s voice mail, so he found the Sheriff’s number instead. He turned as that rang, staring at the police car behind them. The lights flashed blue and red in his eyes, leaving wobbly marks in his vision. 

“Dude,” Scott said. 

“I’m not stopping.” Stiles replied, gripping the wheel tightly. “It’s not like a car chase will ruin my record.” 

The Sheriff’s phone didn’t pick up either, and Scott pulled it away from his ear. 

“There was no answer for either of them.”

“Dammit.” Stiles said, and sped up again. 

 

****

 

In all the adrenaline filled months of being a werewolf, Scott had never been so tense with anxiety. The jeep couldn’t go fast enough, and the police cruiser behind them was even having trouble keeping up. There wasn’t far to go between the sheriff’s station, and the Stilinski’s house, and Stiles’ driving was eating up the minutes, but it still felt too slow. 

Stiles- well, Not Stiles had planted a bomb, a big one, if the terse sentences describing it to him were any indication from Stiles’ memory. Both their parents were there, completely by chance, and Scott knew that the nogitsune would be thrilled with this turn of events, if it were still around to see it. Man, how could this _thing_ still be affecting their lives, still putting them in life or death situations? The nogitsune was _gone_ , but the effects would continue on. Scott grit his teeth at the thought. 

Stiles’ breathing was erratic, but he seemed to have gotten control over his emotions. He was staring at the road, as Scott tried the numbers of his mom and the sheriff again and again. 

In a moment, when his phone was disconnected from the failed calls, it lit up with another name. 

“Lydia’s calling.” Scott announced. They were pulling into Stiles’ neighborhood now, and Stiles was taking the residential roads far too fast. The police car was still behind them, blaring out the sirens. 

“Answer it.” Stiles said, terse, staring forward. 

“Hello?” Scott said, feeling surreal for a moment. Lydia’s angry tones immediately blared into his ear. 

“Scott, what the hell is going on! Why weren’t you answering?” 

Scott winced, and pulled the phone away from his ear, and Stiles spared him a momentary look of sympathy. 

“Sorry, we’re kinda in the middle of a car chase.” He said. Lydia full on growled at him.

“What do you mean, car chase? Scott, someone’s going to die at Stiles’ house, I felt it.” 

Scott swallowed. Stiles had heard that; going pale and speeding up. 

“We’re on our way there. Stiles remembers the nogitsune planting a bomb there.”

“Is that the police?” 

Scott looked back, and yup, Parrish and his very confused Dad were still right behind them. Oh, god his dad _knew_. He knew about everything. He was probably telling Parrish right now. But, they weren’t attempting to drive them off the road or anything, so that was good.

“Yeah, they’re following us.” 

“I’m gonna guess not as a police escort.” 

“Not exactly.” Scott replied. 

Stiles turned his head. 

“Where is she?” 

Lydia heard, and Scott put her on speakerphone so Stiles could hear as well. 

“We’re only a few minutes away. Derek’s with me.”

“Well, hurry. I don’t know how long we have.” Stiles said, eyes still on the road. 

“I’m going to try the Sheriff again.” Scott said, and Lydia made a noise of assent.

“Be careful.” There was a click, and then Scott was dialing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late late late, sorry again. It's not even Thursday anymore for some of you... love you all! Enjoy! I've been informed by many of you that I'm awful, and the cliffhangers were horrid, so...uh, here's some more? Thank you for reviewing! I'll try to answer them at some point this weekened.


	15. Chapter 15

At the Stilinski’s house, the Sheriff’s phone rang on the kitchen table. He didn’t hear it from upstairs, where he was currently monitoring the team of police officers tearing apart his son’s bedroom, and trying not to feel personally betrayed by his entire team. They avoided his eyes, and stayed quiet, but the Sheriff still crossed his arms, and glared, making his displeasure clear. Melissa stood behind him, nervous and worried. 

The number for that lawyer was in his pocket, and he’d spoken with her secretary. Maria Van Martin was an esteemed lawyer in the real world (of course, he’d done his research before calling, he was his son’s father, after all) and he’d been promised that she be here to help soon. Afterall, he was a friend of Chris Argent’s, and her clients of that nature were usually desperate. Well, desperate he was. 

The men were taking picture after picture, and pulling out drawers and opening the closet door. They were pulling at papers, and tossing old looking books around. John gritted his teeth as something tore. 

“Hey, be careful in there!” He snapped. 

The main exhibit was on the wall, and John wished to god that he’d torn down the papers of photos that lined Stiles’ room. He knew what it looked like; Stiles being inordinately interested in recent cases, over interest and obsession leading to copycatting behavior. It was textbook. Except it so very very much wasn’t.

Melissa put her hands on his shoulders. A gentle pressure moved him towards the stairs, and John went with her unwillingly. 

“Let’s let them be. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” She murmured, and led him downstairs. There was another officer downstairs- making three in total, and she was methodically looking through the rooms on the ground floor (and being a lot more respectful about the house than her partners were upstairs.)

“Officer Acuna,” John greeted, and she turned and nodded at him with an apology in her eyes. John sighed, and rubbed his face. 

“God, Melissa, what are we going to do?” He whispered, and Melissa pulled him into a hug. 

“It’ll work out. Everything has before.” 

John waited until Acuna left the room, heading for the garage door, before continuing. 

“They’re going to convict him of all the shit the nogitsune did. He’ll be in jail for life, if not worse.” John swallowed the fear that engulfed his gut, trying to stay strong. Melissa shushed him, and stroked his back, but there was nothing she could say. 

John sucked in a breath, and pulled back. Melissa tried to smile at him, and John was grateful. 

“Sir!” Acuna yelled from the garage. It took John a second to realize that she wasn’t calling for him-he was the parent in this situation, not the sheriff. There was alarm in her voice, and Officer Goldman, the lead on this assignment, was already moving from the stairs towards the garage door in the kitchen, with the third officer in tow.

"We've got a body!" John's body turned to ice, and he was about to rush down, when the sound of two cars roaring to a stop came from outside the open front door. One of the them was heart-sinkingly familiar. 

Stiles jeep honked then, long and frantic. The noise was shortly swallowed up by the squealing of a police siren, also stopping right outside his house. 

“What in the hell?”

 

****

 

Stiles stopped his jeep far too harshly, and laid on the horn, hoping it would be some kind of warning. Scott was already jumping out; seeing Melissa’s car in the driveway was a spur to be sure she was safe. Beside them, crooked on the street and stopped almost at the same moment was Lydia’s car, with Derek in the passenger seat. Behind his car, Parrish’s police cruiser swung in, the siren’s not cutting off, casting a cacophony of chaos over the yard. 

Stiles leapt out of the car, and waved his arms. His dad was right there, coming out of the house, with Melissa on his heels, and Stiles about collapsed in relief. 

“Don’t touch anything!” He yelled. Scott was running up to his mom, reaching out for her, asking if she was safe. Agent McCall, looking pale, ran over to his family from Parrish’s car. 

“Freeze!” Parrish got out of his car, gun already drawn. This sent Scott and Derek into ready-mode, just waiting to spring out the claws. Parrish stopped a few paces behind him, gun pointing right at his heart. Stiles’s house, and father and potential bomb were at his back, and Stiles didn’t have the patience to talk this out. 

Stiles felt bitter panic rise in his throat. He charged forward, waving his arms, and hoped to god that Parrish wouldn’t take a shot. 

“Get out! Get out of the house! There’s a bomb!” 

“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Parrish yelled. 

“Stiles!” Scott shouted.

He ran past his dad, shoving him into the yard, and away from house. 

“Scott, get them out of here!” 

Scott nodded, and started pulling his family, and Stiles’ father towards the street. Parrish ran past them, still holding his gun.  
Stiles didn’t stop, bursting through the garage door, only to find a sudden stillness. The three police officers were standing in the middle, staring down at the ground under the heater. There was a body there, unnoticed for weeks by his father and him, since they’d had no reason to come into the garage in the past weeks, but obvious to anyone looking. The smell was awful, and only the fact that the door had been firmly shut had saved them from noticing. It was Barrow, wrapped in clear plastic, and clearly decaying, but still identifiable. He was partially uncovered, and there was a wire leading from his hand to the metal water heater. Glued to the surface was the bomb he’d set up, and on the top was the timer, already ticking down. 

**00:55**

**00:54**

**00:53**

Parrish, who’d followed him in, still waving the gun around, dropped it, and scrambled forward. Everyone else was standing still in shock. 

“Get outside, and move everyone back! If that thing blows, it could take out the whole house!”

“Bigger,” Stiles said faintly. “It’s rigged to the gas line, leading all the way outside. The blast will take out the two next door houses as well. Maybe more.”

**00:42**

Parrish stared for a split second, and then waved his arm. “Get outside, all of you.”

 

****

 

Lydia rushed forward, towards where Stiles had disappeared into the house. The pressure that said that death was imminent was building behind her eyes, and she didn’t want Stiles to get out of her sight. She couldn’t handle it if he died too. It had only been days since Allison- they couldn’t take it. 

Derek hurried after her, but put a restraining hand on her shoulder when the other police officers ran out of the house. 

“Get back! Get back!” They were yelling, and Scott was growling at his father when he grabbed Melissa to move her away from the house. Agent McCall jerked his hand back, white faced, and Lydia realized that he knew. 

Derek rushed forward, and the officers, two men and a woman were yelling at him in a panic. 

“There’s a bomb in there! We have to get clear.”

Panic just like hers flashed across both Derek’s and Scott’s faces, and all of them turned towards Stiles’ house, towards the place where their friend, and pack member lived and where he was even now inside, trying to save them. 

“No!” Lydia gasped and ran. The werewolves weren’t far behind her, overtaking her shorter legs and human speed. They wouldn’t let Stiles die. And, if they were too late to stop it, they wouldn’t let him die alone. 

 

****

**00:37**

**00:36**

Stiles didn’t run. Parrish was gesturing at him to leave, but he was remembering something else. Barrow's face, and then-”

_Stiles stood face to face with himself. Like a few nights ago, his own grin chilled him, and darkness shown out from behind his brown eyes. The nogitsune smiled at him, and Stiles stumbled backwards against the stair rail. They were still in the garage, but they were alone, except for Barrow. He was hunched over a mess of wires and mechanical parts, using a tiny screwdriver to put two pieces together. Was this a dream, or a memory? Or- Stiles felt a flash of fear- was the nogitsune still here?_

_"What is real, Stiles?" The nogitsune said, and Stiles knew this must be something he'd constructed in his own mind, because there was no way that the ancient japanese demon would be quoting Dumbledore. Still, terror clentched his chest, especially when the nogitsune turned towards Barrow, flicking a wink towards him as he did so._

_"Do you have it ready?" He asked Barrow, and Barrow flinched, before nodding vigorously._

_"Uh, yes, yes, of course, sir, uh." Barrow was stammering, and Stiles realized he could feel the nogistune's annoyance, his pride. Stiles swallowed, and inched further back. "The bomb just goes here on the pipe, the natural gasses will cause a much bigger explosion, like you wanted, sir, uh. There's the connector cable there, and here's the trigger. And this wire here will turn it off if you jostle it by mistake, uh, not that you'd make a mistake, sir, uh-"_

_Stiles felt himself roll his eyes, even though in the dream he was standing outside of the nogitsune, and he didn't move. He watched closely though, because Barrow had just pointed out which wire would turn it off, and he didn't want to lose it. It was a tiny blue wire, hidden behind a few others._

_The nogitsune was moving forward now. "You've done well." He said, and put out a hand. Barrow crumbled forward, holding his head crying out as a large black fly flew from his ear. It flew into the nogitsune's hand, and he cooed to it for a moment, before letting it go. Then, with a sharp movement, he looked up, and leveled a stare at Barrow. "It's time for you to perform your final use to me."_

_Barrow realized what was happening seconds before the nogistune's hands were around his throat. Stiles, watching, ripped himself out of the memory._

“I know how to stop it.” He said, gasping. It had only been seconds. Parrish clenched his fists and looked up from the bomb. 

“Stiles, get out of here! You’re going to die! Go!”

Stiles shook his head, jumping forward towards the bomb. Parrish grabbed him and dragged him towards the door while Stiles struggled. 

“Let me go!”

Parrish gripped Stiles’ shoulders tightly, facing him, and trying to hold him still. He looked anguished, glancing back towards the bomb. He couldn’t save Stiles and stop the bomb. He couldn’t save anyone.

**00:30**

“Stiles, I don’t know why you’d do this, but you have to run. We’re all going to die, if you don’t.”

Stiles jerked again, but Parrish held on to his arms. He stood, panting, while the clock ticked down. 

**00:24**

“Deputy, you have to believe me. I didn’t do this, but I know how to stop it!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t do it. I was possessed! Something was using my body to do all those things, but I remember what it did, and I can stop the bomb! Please!”

**00:21**

**00:20**

The timer was down to twenty seconds, and Stiles used one of them left to regret not hugging his father before dying-for real this time. He hoped the others could clear the blast range, but the nogitsune had tried to make the biggest explosion possible, so they probably wouldn’t be able to. More destruction and all that. 

Parrish was staring at him. 

**00:10**

“Please, let me go!” Stiles yelled. 

**00:09**

Parrish moved back, his face tulmultuous. 

**00:08**

Stiles leapt forward, and ripped the cover off the bomb.

**00:07**

Inside there was a mess of wires, the embodiment of the chaos the nogitsune had believed in.

**00:06**

Stiles saw the blue wire he’d remembered. Small and insignificant.

**00:05**

He reached out with shaking fingers and gripped the tiny wire.

**00:04**

He took a breath.

**00:03**

“Are you sure?” Parrish whispered, and Stiles stiffened. Was he? Doesn’t matter now.

**00:02**

Stiles pulled.

Parrish flinched, and Stiles jerked backwards as the device beeped harshly. 

**00:02**

The timer had stopped. 

Stiles collapsed to the ground, lightheaded with relief. Parrish was breathing hard as well, and staring wide eyed at Stiles. Stiles remembered the things he’d said, and gave an awkward laugh. 

“Uh, if you could just ignore what I said right there.”

Parrish, almost mindlessly bent towards his gun, and picked it up again slowly. A commotion from the door distracted him, and he saw Scott and Derek standing in the doorway, fangs and claws drawn. Lydia was behind, glaring in her way. Parrish looked at all of them, and lowered the gun. 

“Possession? Um…” He waved a hand at Scott and Derek. Stiles spoke up helpfully. 

“Werewolves.”

“Werewolves.” Parrish repeated faintly. 

“And a Banshee.” He continued, gesturing towards Lydia, a little giddily. He was still on the ground, and he didn’t think he’d be getting up on his own. Scott and Derek were starting to relax, now that it looked like no bombs were going to go off, and no one was going to shoot Stiles. Parrish was staring, but his gun was loose and forgotten in his hand. 

They all watched, as Parrish tried to process this. He lifted a hand to his side, and held on, before dropping it and looking at Stiles. 

“I suppose it makes more sense than some other explanations.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows went up. “You believe us?” 

Parrish gestured to where Scott’s and Derek’s fangs were just receding. 

“There’s that. And a few nights ago, I was sliced in the stomach by smoky ninjas, and then the wound healed a few hours later. I don’t think I’ve quite processed it yet, but...I think you’re telling the truth.”

Stiles let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and laughed. Hard, and loud. He was the only one, so it wasn’t like that end scene of a movie, where you know everything was going to be alright, cause they laughed at the end. He probably looked like a crazy person (again) but Stiles couldn’t help it. Relief, and exhaustion let down every one of his defenses, and soon the laughter turned to heaving sobs. 

Arms encircled him, and for the first time since it was all over, Stiles really allowed himself to take comfort from Scott, and Lydia and Derek’s warmth and caring. He buried his face in Scott’s neck, and Lydia’s arm, and cried. 

At some point, his father’s aftershave was the only thing he smelled, and he practically climbed into his dad’s lap. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, son. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is almost it, guys. It sprang up on me, hehe. Only one chapter left after this. I hope you enjoyed this journey, and look forward to more TW stuff from me. I've already got some ideas floating around. Thank you for all your support and comments, and patience as I get this out. You're all the best!


	16. Chapter 16

So, nobody else died, which was great. The clean up was a nightmare, but the arrival of Chris’ attorney helped everything smooth out, legally at least. Mrs. Van Martin, Esquire was rather terrifying, and quickly got control over the situation. Parrish was actually a huge help as well, testifying that Stiles confessed to be being controlled by a member of the Yakuza to lie to the police, but that he hadn’t actually done anything besides being a scapegoat. They were the ones that orchestrated the attacks, and the death of Allison Argent. 

Agent McCall helped as well, providing the evidence of the Yakuza interfering with life in Beacon Hills long before Stiles was a possible felon. After Barrow’s body was found in the Stilinski’s house, and a glimpse of the oni on the security cameras was seen, the case was tied up nicely, and Stiles received a protective detail for his drive to and from school for a month. 

Two new people knew about the supernatural secret of Beacon Hills. Parrish was actually pretty chill with it. He told the Sheriff that he’d suspected something stranger than anything he could come up with, and that he’d actually already been pretty open minded. Parrish told Stiles about how he’d felt drawn here so strongly, and that it hadn’t come from anything natural. Since it was right about the time the nemeton was activated, Stiles thought he was probably right. 

Agent McCall wasn’t taking it nearly as well: he alternated between anger and fear. Stiles thought that it was less that his son was a mythical creature, but that he’d done so much and had so much happen to him, and McCall never knew. That his son’s whole life changed literally overnight, and he had been totally in the dark was both a betrayal and guilt inducing. Scott was having a hard time of it, but McCall honestly was trying, though, so that was something. 

Allison’s funeral was on Saturday, two days after the whole mess with the bomb. Chris Argent had outdone himself with preparations, and looked haggard as he greeted people with tight smiles under his grown out beard. His family had flown in from France mostly, as well as other places in the U.S. and Europe. They were mostly hunters, which added an unnecessary tension to the gathering, as the hunters side eyed the wolves, and the wolves stood straight with the absolute right to be there. No one was killing each other, though, so that was a plus. The rest of the people there, Allison’s classmates, and members of the community not in the know were slightly startled by the animosity between the family, and Allison’s closest friends, but long ago they’d learned not to ask questions about Scott McCall’s group. 

Allison lay in the casket at the front of the crowd during the ceremony, and the whole stereotype about the dearly departed looking like they were just sleeping was totally false. She was beautiful, dressed in white, but she looked like marble. An angelic statue on silk lining. Scott hunched over her for a long moment, and wiped away tears when he moved back. Melissa, standing further back next to Stiles’ father was wearing a heartbroken expression. 

The funeral was beautiful, but Stiles was glad to be sitting outside. The wind was blowing in his face, and the hint of rain seemed appropriate. Still, the chairs were clustered together, and it was too easy for Scott and Lydia on either side of him to notice how he was shaking with the effort to not run away. 

Everyone was here. Lydia wore a modest black dress, with her hair half pulled back, looking somber and far more plain than he’d ever seen her. She had just lost her best friend, and looked at the ground more than anything. She was clutching the program, twisting the paper up. Stiles wanted to take her hand, but he couldn’t reach out. He fiddled with his tie instead (his dad had done it up for him, since his hands were trembling). Scott moved closer beside him, putting an arm around him. 

At the touch, Stiles couldn’t help but relax just a little. Scott had been doing that lately; a hug, a hand in his, an arm around him. Something about it made Stiles feel protected, safer, especially when he was about to spiral into an anxiety ridden freak out.   
Behind him, Derek put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and nodded to Scott. Kira, seated by her parents, smiled timidly but didn’t come over. Scott, red eyed from grief, looked back gratefully, but stayed tangled with his pack, save for Isaac. He sat by Chris, and stared at the ground. Stiles caught Scott looking at him in pain, but again, Scott didn’t move. 

Isaac had come to Scott before the service, looking somber, and smelling of anger, Scott told him. 

“I’m leaving,” He said. Scott gaped at him. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Isaac pursed his lips, and looked sideways. 

“Chris is going to go back to France with his family. I’m going to go with him.” 

Understandably, Scott was shattered by the news. To lose not only Allison, but Isaac as well was awful, and it would be much worse for Scott than anyone else. Stiles wondered when it would stop feeling like the world was falling apart. 

The crowd’s gentle murmurs quieted at that point, as Chris walked forward towards the open grave. The casket, ready to be lowered down by some hulking Argent family members, was closed. Stiles tried not to think about Allison’s body being inside. 

Chris cleared his throat, and clasped his hands in front of him. Under his arm was a long wrapped bundle. It was painfully obvious how alone he stood up there. His entire family; his wife, sister, father and daughter had all died or betrayed him. Gerard wasn’t even there, and Stiles hadn’t heard the last time he was alive. His extended family; his wife’s mother, uncles, nieces and nephews were hanging back, aware that this wasn’t their right. So, Chris stood alone. 

He straightened his chin, and spoke. 

“Thank you all for coming. To those of you who knew Allison, you were aware that she was a special young woman. She was capable, and strong. She was beautiful. She was a leader.” He looked out at the crowd, his voice rough but flat. “After my wife, and Allison’s mother died, Allison was a rock to me. She’s gone too now, but her legacy lives on. She will be remembered for her love, her compassion, and her determination to protect those she loved.” Chris nodded, and stepped forward to unwrap his bundle. It was Allison’s longbow, which he placed on the lid of the casket. 

Beside him, Lydia sniffed, and Stiles glanced over to see that tears were running down her face. Finally gaining some kind of momentum, he reached and took her hand. She squeezed it back, and a new wave of tears fell down her pale cheeks. 

Others spoke; friends from school who barely knew her, family members who remembered a childhood playmate. Roses were set on the lid of the casket. Everyone had something nice to say, but Stiles felt a tension winding around his heart. Who was going to get up and talk about the girl who’d learned that her boyfriend was a werewolf, and instead of being terrified, had loved him with all her heart. What about the woman who’d sacrificed her own life to save her father’s? Or the friend who’d found the key to saving the whole town from Japanese demons, and gave her life _again_ in the process? 

Stiles gritted his teeth, and twisted away from Scott’s arm, and the hand he’d just given to Lydia. He had to walk, had to--, had to get away from all of these people who never even knew the real person. Allison was _dead_ , and everyone just wanted to talk about how nice she was at school. 

Stiles didn’t go far, and the service went on. He waited just a few gravestones away, standing bent with his hands shoved in his pockets. A minute later, a hand pressed on his shoulder, large and comforting, and Stiles turned to see Derek silently watching. He stood behind Stiles, supporting him the same way he’d done for him, ages ago when Boyd lay on the ground and water soaked into his shoes. Scott was looking over, worried with his arm around Lydia now.

Nodding tightly, Stiles watched the rest of the service from there, far enough away that he didn’t have to hear the words, even as Scott and Lydia both got up. Derek could probably hear, but he didn’t ask him to relay it to him. Flowers gently covered the casket. Eventually people moved away, back to their cars, back home to regular lives, where the fact that Allison was dead because of him didn’t affect them. 

Derek squeezed the shoulder he was still holding, and then spoke. 

“You okay?” 

Was he? Not in the slightest. But, he wasn’t going to jail. He had the card for Peter’s psychiatrist (and what a world they lived in that _Peter Hale_ would be taking part in his mental health?) in his pocket, and he had the rest of his friends caring for him. His father was down there, waiting for him by the car. Maybe that could be enough? 

“No, not really.” Stiles said, his voice wan. Derek’s face softened, and Stiles knew that from what he knew of Derek’s background, he understood at least some of it. 

“Stiles!” It was Scott, coming up the hill he stood on. He and Lydia were walking up with Kira, and someone else, wearing a simple black dress. Stiles almost didn’t recognize her.

“Malia?” 

The were-coyote half smiled at him, and Stiles remembered their time together at the Eichen House. Was that real, was any of it? She was speaking. 

“I just wanted to let you know that Scott’s promised to help me get control of my powers. And, thank you, for saving me.” 

“By saving, do you mean letting a powerful demon take control of me _again_ , cause I don’t think that really counts.” Stiles muttered, and Malia shook her head. 

“You did save me. In the woods, and in the basement. I don’t care what you say.” She leaned up and pressed cold lips against his cheek. Stiles breathed out his nose, and nodded at her. 

There was a moments pause, and Scott looked around at them all. Stiles realized that this was it. Here, the six of them, was what was left of Scott’s pack. There had been new additions. There had been losses. Allison’s death would forever be a hole in all of their hearts, but they were together now. And, Stiles was learning, _now_ was all that counted. 

Lydia reached out that time, grabbing his hand, and pulling him into a hug. Scott joined, and soon it was another group hug, with Scott’s arms around him and Malia, and Lydia pressed between him and Derek. Kira was pulled in as well, and Stiles was glad he was less hysterical for this one, though his eyes didn’t exactly stay dry.

Maybe that one optimistic thought _had_ been the truth, or some version of it. He could be alright. The pack was surrounding him, and though he still had anxiety fluttering in his chest, and a pit of dark guilt around his heart; even though that darkness would always be a part of him, maybe, just _maybe_ , they all, Stiles included, could make it through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! What a ride! Thank you all for your support and excitement through this journey. I definitely didn't expect such a response (nor did I expect to write such a behemoth!) but it's been so lovely to hear from you regulars (Thank you night, seetherrayne, Cuppa_Char, shruthip_06, theletterelle, Xrose96, Kirk, and others who commented!), and from the new people that yelled at me for making them stay up all night...hee, sorry.   
> It's been such fun! Honestly, though, this story morphed into something that limited what I actually wanted to do. Adding in a plot squished out the recovery I wanted to dwell on, so there may be more in the future, like missing scenes, and little moments that got stuck outside the main storyline. Let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see, like a scene you wish I'd expounded on, or a relationship that got ignored. I tried to keep the story balanced, but I know I lingered on Stiles. (Not that I think many of you had a problem with that!) Anyway, I hope you liked it! I know I sure loved writing it! See you all later!  
> Ari


End file.
